From the Street

STREET TALES

HUMANS THE CYCLE OF MAGIC

by Tom Dowd

Speech given by Keynote speaker, Ehran "The Scribe" at the YET (Young Elven Technologists) fund-raising dinner.

The Humans are confused.

This is their normal state of being. Their lives are so short, they never have time to think things through. I know this is a gross over-simplification, that there have been many brilliant Human scholars throughout the ages. Even the Da Vincis and the Einsteins, while brilliant enough to see a glimpse of the larger pattern, and imaginative enough to visualize a complex and interconnected world, still did not have the time to analyze their own thoughts. It takes years, sometimes hundreds of years, to get the correct perspective on ideas, even your own ideas. Humans just do not have the luxury of that time. They are also limited by their devout belief in not believing. Since the earliest recorded Human history they have had stories of magic, great unexplained ancient civilizations, and other mysteries. The Humans chose not to believe these and thus, when the mother returned the magic to us, they became disoriented and confused, their normal state of being.

In all fairness, I must admit that most of humanity was not very advanced when the great mother took the magic away the last time, so it must be hard for them to deal with its return. What I am about to tell you must remain an elven secret. I know that the Humans will eventually discover it, but it should be delayed as long as possible.

All things that the great mother gives us, she also takes away. Nature, as the Humans call it, moves in cycles: the rising and setting of the sun, the seasons of the year, the flowing of the tide, it is always a cycle. Magic also runs in a cycle, it comes and goes from the earth, as does the warmth of the summer sun. Its cycle is measured not in hours, as the sun's is, but in thousands of years.

From a scientific viewpoint, magic, when charted, is a semi-regular wave form moving through the history of the earth. There are slight fluctuations throughout the wave, and the wave itself is not completely uniform.

The point in the cycle at which the world becomes magically alive or magic falls dormant is called the Threshold Level. Every magical race and, in some cases, each individual within a race, has its own specific magical trigger point for metamorphosis to occur, thus the transformation of the world takes place over a period of time. Traditionally, the Threshold Level has been set as the date of the awakening of the first Great Dragon on the upswing and the hibernation of the last Great Dragon on the down swing. The average time between Threshold Levels is approximately 5,200 years.

As the last age of magic came to a close, Atlantis was readying itself for disaster. The isle of Atlantis was protected from the forces of nature by the magic of its inhabitants, and thus it could not exist after the magic dropped below the Threshold Level. The Atlantian culture was a racial hybrid that had achieved both scientific and magical wonders, but in its later years, it turned against itself by fighting nature to maintain the island. As the end came near, a migration of technology and culture spread from the isle to the rest of the world. This is the reason mankind's ancient calendars all start within 100 years of each other. The Hebrew, Egyptian, Chinese, and most importantly, Mayan calendars all show the direct influence of Atlantian culture.

The Mayan calendar is the most amazing, as it contains a complete description of the magic cycles, including this current crossing of the Threshold. The Mayan calendar was created in the year 3372 BC (using the Christian calendar), just at the end of the last cycle. The Mayans described the cycles as "worlds", and stated that only certain life forms made the transition from one world to the next. The calendar, written over 5,000 years ago, predicted the exact day the Threshold Level would be passed. If we convert the Mayan dates to the current Christian calendar, it correctly states that the Threshold would be passed on December 24, 2011. On that day, the first Great Dragon was seen in Japan. The precision is amazing.

Atlantis sank on August 12, 3113 BC, thus marking the end of the Fourth World and the beginning of the Fifth. The Sixth World began on December 12, 2011 AD, and will end, according to the Mayan calendar, on April 4, 7137 AD.

We have the intervening time to enjoy what the Great Mother gives us and to use responsibly the double-edged sword of technology that our Human cousins have created. We must use both the energy of nature and the power of technology to try to fix the damage done by our short-lived relatives.

REX TREMENDAE

By Tom Dowd, transcription by Ken Web

The line outside Dante's Inferno was long, mean, and peopled with some of the most alien types I'd ever seen. I been to Seattle before, even to this very club, but the sights never failed to astonish. Sure, I understand dressing for style, for effect, but physical extremism repels me. Home, we run the shadows as hard as any, and our colors show it. We wear clothes that suit us, that make our work and lives easier, simpler. Every policlub has its own look, its special expression, but none of us would consider overt physical mutilation as a symbol of superiority.

Here in America, especially in this town, it seems you're nobody unless you can get people to notice you walking down the street. Yet for me, whose life is the streets anywhere in the world, to be noticed on those streets is almost certain death.

How little subtlety exists here. I pass this line of people, all waiting to get into the same place at the same time, knowing full well they're not wanted here. Perhaps they think waiting in line for all the world to see is as good as actually dancing on the glass floors of the Inferno. In Europe, we would simply find another club rather than play the fool by standing in line.

Reaching the door, I stifled a laugh. Dwarfed by the huge size of the doorbeing, a girl in black and red was trying to talk her way past the Troll. Unlike me, she wasn't known, so she wouldn't get in. Giving the troll a nod, I brushed past, and the gander-girl cursed me for it. The way she mangled City-Speak was startling enough to make me turn and look at her. She was shorter than I, but jacked up by a pair of razor-spike boots. Her long hair, its color moving from iridescent blue to white to black and back again, framed her face. A true looker, by any standards, if you ignored the hot, quick death in her eyes. She glared at me, waiting for an equally venomous response, but I held back. Far too much was at stake tonight.

I gave her the dead-face and was about to turn and be gone when she surprised me by cursing again, this time perfectly. I smiled in amusement. Her first curse had been sudden, impulsive, and fractured. The second was perfect, even down to the cross-talk inflection. She was chip-trained, no question, but trained only. If she had been wearing, her first shot would have come out like a veteran's.

I couldn't help but smile even more broadly as I looked her over more closely. The apparel was right: all the proper straps and chains tight or loose as the fashion demanded. Quad-colored earrings danced slowly on her ears, glittering in the lights of the street. Her corneal tint was near- phosphorescent, designed to pull your eyes to hers even in the darkest shag- joint. She was absolutely perfect, the ultimate gander-girl, and therein lay her failure to pull it off. But that was what intrigued me.

I weighed my options, her paradox versus my purpose tonight, and decided to take the risk. I nodded again at the troll and spoke just loud enough for him to hear, "Say, friend, she's with me."

The girl apparently heard me, and started slightly at my words, I motioned for her to take the lead. She glanced once at the Troll, but turned just as quickly away from his sudden, feral grin. As she stepped forward, I guided her with the gentle pressure of my fingertips at the small of her back. Once again, she gave herself away. Her jacket was real denim, not the cheap synthetic that a "real" gander-girl would wear.

We continued on into the uppermost level of Inferno. Though I hated the place, I always found myself becoming a semi-regular out of sheer habit whenever I was in town. I'd first met Dante in London, where I'd done a run for him involving his London club. Now he always made sure I got first class treatment, no doubt because the story of our dealings would leave him cut into little pieces if it ever leaked out. EBM[2] never forgets.

The band had apparently just taken the upper stage. A staccato riff from the lead ten-string triggered the sync-systems, bathing the levels in pulsating light and liquid noise. Shag-metal was rip in this town, which made my desire to go transcontinental all the stronger. It was enough that I could very well die tonight, but the thought of "Bangin' the Duke" as my funeral dirge was too much.

I wanted to believe that my people were different than these nighttrippers thrashing about me now. I wanted to believe that things back home were different, that my people had some memory, some honor, for the glory of our cultural past. I wanted to believe that even a shadow of our rich history and traditions still existed. I wanted to believe that we were superior to these Americans, with their all-consuming lust for the new. But I knew that our magnificent past had all but vanished from mind, as though it had never been. Technology had blurred the differences between nations, and chipped languages had destroyed Europe.

The Restoration may have revived our lands and our people physically, but it had almost totally destroyed us culturally. Worshipping the grail of unrestricted growth, the Euro-corps were the driving force behind this so- called Restoration. Erasing the national boundaries meant no more import/export tariffs. It meant the availability of vast pools of cheap labor. It also meant death to 3,000 years of dynamic social expression. That was why I believed that radical politics and a return to nationalism and radical politics were our only hope for rescuing the individualism, the uniqueness of our many peoples. The Neo-Europe District of the Global Village must never come to pass.

The policlubs had been born from the urgency many felt for another kind of Restoration. We, too, wanted to rebuild Europe, even if it meant a return to more contentious times. Ours would not be a Europe homogenized for mass consumption. For better or worse, it would be a Europa Dividuus. We alone kept alive the flame of political activism and expression. Without us, Europe would soon become a corporate Disneyverse. The various policlubs did not, of course, agree on the means or even the ends, but was that not just as it should be? The restoration might appear to be proceeding apace, on the surface. Behind the scenes, we were at war. In the streets, on the data-faxes, in the hearts and minds of those alive enough to listen. Europe would not become another Manhattan, not even another Seattle. I'd come to make sure of that.

I pulled gently on the girl's coat and she turned to eye me quizzically. "Watch the dancers," I said, moving a few steps away to lean against a light- filled pole. Relaxing my whole body, I focused my attention on the pulsating lights of the lasers, letting the rhythm fill me.

A moment passed. Then a longer one. Existence ended and I was free. My vision shifted beyond the confines of my body and I viewed the world as few others could. Oblivious to me, the ghosts of men and women locked in the mundane world were still dancing madly. I scanned this level quickly. There was some minor activity from the faint auras of chip trinkets hawked on the street corners by charlatans, but no bright blossoming or shifting images to warrant further interest.

The astral forms of the dancers on the glass floors at each level below me blocked much of my view, but I dropped quickly through all the levels to where I could contemplate my destination. I saw the cool green of the shield- wall enclosing it, but caught no sign of the person I was to meet there. The shield prevented me from knowing whether she was within its embrace. The only way to penetrate its mystery was to walk through physically. To break through the shield any other way was something neither I nor most other humans could do.

My body jerked once as my mind returned. The girl was looking at me again, as though to ask what was next. I stepped forward, took her hand, and led her away.

We moved down the ramp a few levels. Halfway to our destination, I paused at the sight of a corporate cowboy whose clothes bore the symbol of the Saeder-Krupp dragon and the German flag hologo. The coincidence gave me pause, but I shook off the thought that the woman I was to meet had brought others along. It wasn't at all unusual to see people wearing the popular dragon-logo design. Besides, the woman knew too little of my motives or my knowledge at this point. She was both crafty and powerful, but I had been careful to keep her guessing. "Know your enemy and then use that knowledge against him" was one of the mottos of her following. All she knew about me was what I wanted her to know-or so I hoped. Too bad I knew even less about her. Ignoring another questioning glance from my companion, I guided her on.

Reaching the sixth level, we went over to the nearest bar and I signaled the barkeep. Feeling the girl move gently against me, I looked into her eyes.

Her gaze dipped and rose. Beneath the slightly glowing tint, her eyes were royal blue. "My name's Karyn," she said, "with a 'y'."

I smiled. "No it's not."

She blinked twice and the Elf wiped the area in front of us, leaning in. Tallin pitched his voice to me alone, speaking in clear, unaccented Russian. "Greetings, my friend. How is the Art?"

I replied in the same tongue, though I was definitely rusty. "Harried, as usual."

"A man named Shavan is waiting for you in Hell."

"A man?"

He shrugged. "Figure of speech."

"So ka. Give me the usual, and a Firedrake for my friend." I pulled my credstick from its wrist-sheath, but the Elf waved it away.

His words were in English as he moved down the bar. "Taken care of, my man," he said. "The Inferno still owes you." I returned the stick to its sheath. Dante's debt to me would be repaid with interest tonight.

The crowd roared and a glare of hard, colorless light cut the room. I'd seen this act before and figured the lead singer had just lit a small piece of NightLight and was gleefully trying to shove it down someone's throat. Ah, art.

The girl pressed against me again, her hand lying casually on my thigh. "Nice line," she said, dropping the timbre of her voice. "I almost believed you did know. Just for a second."

This time I didn't smile. "You're still not sure." Our drinks arrived as I spoke, making her gape in surprise at the Firedrake. I shot down my Blind Reaper and touched her arm.

"That's your favorite drink." She looked up at me, eyes still wide. "And your name is not Karyn, with a 'y.' And you're not from anywhere near here." Now fear also swam in her eyes. "But no matter," I told her. "Tonight, you're with me."

I brought her hand up to my face, gently kissed her palm, and then closed it. "I have business. It may take some time, but I want you to hold something for me." Power danced quietly behind my eyes and she gasped. She'd felt the change.

Her hand opened slowly and a jumble of brilliant red silk unfolded, forming first a flower, and then falling open in a drape that covered her hand. I gathered it up and tied the flare of color around her throat. She touched it and stared at me, an odd glistening showing through her corneal tint. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

"You can give it back to me later." My voice was low, barely audible, and she strained forward to hear me.

She'd felt the silk appear in her hands, but wasn't sure if I'd used bar- stool sorcery or the real thing to put it there. She'd think about it, and then think about it some more, and then want to know. Later, I'd let her.

Brushing her cheek and then her hair, I moved away without looking back. If my business went well, I would be alive enough afterward to need a place for disappearing. If I'd read her right, the girl was the bored daughter of some equally bored ultrasilk-suit type. Tired of the macro-glass scene, she'd become enraptured by the rhythm and color of the streets, but remained blind to its workings. Too frightened of being rejected for her real identity, she'd gandered herself up the way they did in the vids. By following the templates to the letter, she'd given herself away.

The quadruple ramps spiraled downward around the outer edge of the club, mimicking the gene-spiral quite nicely. Deeper and deeper into corruption I walked as each level mimicked the names and places of Dante's nightmare: the author's and the owner's. I ignored the screams and other sounds, preparing myself as I descended.

Below the lowest dance floor, down a short, winding ramp, was Hell. No sign marked its location. You had to know it was there. Flanking its entrance were a pair of lightly clad androgynous figures who watched every step of my approach with a near-feverish interest. I stuck my hands in my pockets, and the twins twitched. I flashed them a grin.

"Shavan is waiting for me."

The one on the left nodded as the one on the right spoke. "Indeed," it said in a tone of menace. "You are expected." The bodies of the twins were perfect, scarless, some say the best ever made in Chiba. I doubted it, but not that they were the perfect guards for Hell.

Flash the fat credstick and you could rent Hell and be assured of complete privacy. It was swept magically and electronically before and after every meeting. Once the participants were inside, no one else got in. No spirit-eavesdropping here. The astral shield prevented that. No way in through the higher plane, either, which was exactly what Shavan would be counting on.

Hell's designers had been kind enough to include a sizable foyer just inside the doors to allow a moment of preparation. Unfortunately, there were few spells I could raise and maintain that she wouldn't detect. Keeping her calm until just the right moment would be the key to my walking away from this meet. I checked my gear once and then dropped down into a lotus position on the floor. The rhythm of my pulse released me and I gave the shield lattice and the area a quick astral once-over. Everything was quiet, but it was still early. My senses returned and I prepared myself.

Shavan was an enigma. As the head of the policlub known as The Revenants, she wielded great power. Little was known about her, and less than a handful had ever actually met her. The only description I'd ever heard was that she was apparently of Nordic descent, but in this day and age, only a DNA-marker test could tell it for sure. She was a powerful sorceress and had relied on that to conceal her trip to Seattle. She needed to speak to someone, and that someone was not about to come to her. What she hadn't counted on was that a good friend of mine knew how to look better than she knew how to hide.

Shavan had been surprised that I'd known she was in Seattle, let alone where to find her. She'd thought her business was deep in the shadows. That was her first mistake. Her second was believing that what I'd offered her was genuine.

I'd chosen the meeting place, one known for its security, and she'd chosen the time. My only security was her word that she'd be there, and that was enough. We both had reputations to live up to.

I stepped through the inner doors to find her waiting for me, according to plan. I was late.

"Alexander," she said, a slightly wicked smile crossing her face, "fancy meeting you here."

The sight of her was so different than what I'd expected that I scanned the room to hide my surprise. The room and its accessories were pure white, in startling contrast to the woman. Everything about Shavan was dark. Her clothes, her skin, her eyes, even her voice.

She laughed. "I believe this is yours." Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a ball of bright red silk and let it drop gently onto one of the sofas.

The odds against me walking out of here in one piece suddenly crashed dramatically. My mind raced through the possibilities of how she could have gotten the silk, as I rejected every one just as quickly. There was no way she could have and still beaten my arrival here. Regardless, she had used the ploy to good purpose, having broken my momentum. With my options halved, I was still at least five minutes away from playing my real cards. Until then, my bluff would have to do.

I picked up the silk and tied it at my throat. "Do you like it?" I kept my voice as level as I could manage.

She seemed amused. "Like it?"

"The silk."

Her amusement grew. "Ah, well, it's lovely, I must admit. And real, no doubt." Keeping me in view, she turned slightly to mix a drink.

"One hundred percent."

"Only the best for Alexander."

I let several long moments pass as I wandered casually to the audio-visual console and scanned the selection menu. "Only the best for Gunther Steadman," I said, pressing the touch-sensitive screen. I cued the first to start midway-though, and the second to follow it after a short pause.

Mention of Steadman gave her such a start that I caught her surprise even as she mastered it. She knew she was dead. I sensed the fear and anger that washed over her before she regained her calm. For someone of her power, Shavan was far too easy to read. All the better.

Nonchalantly, she finished mixing her drink, and turned back to face me directly. "Red was never Steadman's color," she said coolly.

The music I'd selected had begun to play now, giving her pause and me another opening. Choosing this piece had been a gamble. Hearing it now, I wondered briefly if I'd overplayed my hand.

"It is now," I said, letting the music almost drown my words. She heard me, though, for I sensed another wave of tension wash over her.

"This wouldn't be some kind of threat, would it?" Only her eyes followed me as I moved to sit on a nearby float sofa. "I think Mozart's 'Requiem' is hardly suitable background for a business dealing." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

I shrugged. "I like it. It relaxes me. Just think of it as being in honor of Steadman."

She relaxed fractionally, and thinking me none the wiser, lied. "So he's dead."

I nodded, stretching my arms out across the back of the couch, and told her what I was damn sure she already knew. "Three days ago in Hamburg. Bullet-train in the skull. Nasty, very nasty." And there was only one way she could have known I hadn't lied.

"So who's running Der Nachtmachen now? Who are you representing?" she asked, studying me intently.

"It's not really important," I replied casually. "The offer is the same."

"On the contrary. It's very important." She crossed the short distance between us, gracefully lifted herself onto the back of the couch opposite me, and assumed the lotus position. "I want to know."

The first part of the "Requiem" was coming to its conclusion, and I knew my five minutes were slowly trickling away. Standing up, I placed my left boot on the low glass table and adjusted the straps. I did it so slowly and carefully so as not to alarm her, wanting mainly to annoy her with the delay in my response. When I'd finished, I sat back down exactly as before.

I smiled before speaking. "Technically, I'm the one who's running things now."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You!" She was incredulous. "You're lying. The Nightmakers would never accept you. You're a runner and too damn close to what they hate most."

I shrugged lightly. "Think of it as a military coup," I said, staring her straight in the eyes. "Besides, I said 'technically.' I issue the orders, but they come from Steadman's mouth. Rather, what's left of it."

False understanding glinted in her eyes. "You're playing on that religious fanatical edge they've always had, aren't you?"

Nodding, I noted that the "Introitus" had ceased. The next selection was about to begin after the pause I'd programmed. Time to play my cards. I stood up.

"Enough talk." I was sensitive enough to emotions to know how to manipulate, even in one like Shavan. My movement, pitch, and inflection snapped her onto the defensive. "We've made a decision. Der Nachtmachen no longer finds it acceptable for you to be the shadow- liege of The Revenants. Our unification offer is withdrawn."

Shavan unfolded herself and stood up to face me, her eyes taking on a Medusan quality. No doubt about it, the lady was angry. "No longer finds it acceptable?" she hissed. "You think you can bully me? Bully us?" I didn't need my astral sight to see the power building. "Saeder-Krupp has already agreed to the funding, my stupid friend. With their nuyen, The Revenants will yank the reins of the European Restoration out of the hands of the bureaucrats and put them back in the hands of the people!"

I shook my head, turned, and step-vaulted over the float couch, putting it between us. Landing with a turn, I saw she'd cut herself short on a spell, but not short enough to hurt. "I think I read that on your last scream sheet, didn't I?" I pushed back my leather coat and jammed my thumbs in my pants pockets.

Her voice and anger rose together, and I knew myself only moments away from cinder-city. "You of all people know I'm right!" Her left hand shot out to point at me. "How many trillions have already been spent so that the contractors and analysts can build their villas?"

I shrugged yet again. "I don't know, but I was always fond of The Revenants' little hideaway on the Riviera. Great view."

Shavan's anger solidified as her arm slowly came down and she shifted into a neutral, pro-aggressive stance. "Why now? Der Nachtmachen has always supported our view. Steadman did, his people did, even you did-when you cared to comment. I want to know why you've changed your minds." Ever kind, she left out the words "before I kill you," but her tone was clipped and hard. Without realizing it, she'd shifted into German. My programmed pause was almost up.

"Why? We haven't, and you haven't been listening." I slowly spread my hands wide. I walked clear of the furniture and dropped myself into a lotus position, and in doing so, declared a duel. She smiled, but I continued. "Der Nachtmachen firmly believes in Europa Dividuus, no question. You, however, made the wrong move."

About five meters from me, she dropped down as well, mimicking my position. I nodded, we breathed, and the world became walls of scintillating green energy. The shield that kept out prying eyes and hands would provide the limits of our battle. We couldn't get out, and nothing could get inside-or so she believed.

As we shifted, I'd triggered the spell imbedded in my pinky ring. As I floated free, it manifested adjacent to my body as a point of twirling copper light. She could tell by looking that its power level offered her no threat, but she kept an eye on it anyway.

"You went to Saeder-Krupp," I said. "You wanted the nuyen, but you could have gotten that from just about anyone. You kept it quiet because you didn't want it known you were getting the credit from a corporation." The glare in her eyes was truly blinding, and her aura left no question that I was seconds from death. I had to keep talking, keep her interested just long enough.

"More than money, you wanted the Dragon, and you wanted him enough to come to Seattle to see him." I paused and her eyes narrowed. "You wanted Lofwyr behind you."

"So?" she snapped. "With the Dragon backing us, we could rally the apathetic Awakened."

"Saeder-Krupp is one of the controlling corporations of the Restoration. Why would he betray it for a bunch of street hustlers?"

Her eyes glinted as she saw an opening. "I've spoken with him. You forget how old he is. A Restored Europe would quickly become a concrete Europe. He wants it to return to the way he remembers it."

Now it was my turn. "Damn it, Shavan! Haven't you ever read Saeder-Krupp's profile? Who do you think builds more heavy industry plants in Europe every year? Who do you think pumps more toxins into the atmosphere? Who do you think pollutes more rivers?"

"Those are all companies he bought. It takes time to bring them into line environ-" A shape moved somewhere beyond the shield and I cut her off hard.

"I don't run Der Nachtmachen. A friend of mine does. And he doesn't want his brother screwing around in Europe!"

We both moved. My hands slammed together and I pumped all my will into the Shattershield spell. Raw astral force ripped around us, and hot power streamed upward out of me, tearing into the lattice of the shield. I felt tendrils of ice whip into me as her attack struck. I reeled, trying to control the power arcing around me. As my bolt impacted, the shield was hit hard from the outside. Unable to withstand the dual concussion, it shattered, raining prismatic energy. A dark form poured down through the shards as the music exploded out of my copper energy globe.

Falling away, my power slipping from me, I saw her for the last time. The Dragon's astral form slammed into her, its unearthly claws tearing great jagged rips into her spirit body. Magical energies flowed from her to course ineffectually around the Dragon. I shuddered as her screams merged with the Dragon's roar.

"Shavan, meet Alamais!" I cried out, unheard.

The world spun into the red-tinged darkness, the music stopped, and I grew calm.

Sometime later, I floated. My senses were dead, but I was acutely aware of the sensation.

"Alexander."

I tried to turn toward the source, but found it to be everywhere. Alamais, I thought.

"Good guess."

I may have smiled. "You have a distinctive thought-voice."

"I would imagine."

There was a pause, and I waited.

"So?" I said finally.

"So?"

"So, did you get her?"

The Dragon snorted, and I felt a warm shudder. "Every last bit."

DUNKELZAHN: THE MASS-MEDIA DRAGON

by Tom Dowd

This article originally appeared in Dragon Magazine #199.

The streets are dark in the Shadowrun roleplaying game, and the masters of those streets are the shadowrunners. Deckers, elves, mages, dwarves, riggers, mercenaries, trolls, samurai, orks, and shamans take on the jobs that the megacorporations don't want to dirty their hands with. It's a hard world, and it takes more than strength to survive. It takes guts.

In the Shadowrun game, magic and technology exist side-by-side in a game made for them both. In the year 2054, megacorporations rule, magic has returned to change the world forever, and nothing is what you'd expect. Remember the street proverb: Shoot straight, conserve ammo, and never, ever, deal with a dragon.

›››››[lnformation dissemination being the soul of the Shadowland electronic network, it fails to me as its local controller to post information of interest and watch the fur fly. The following profile is excerpted and abridged from the far-too- hip-for-its-own-good online edition of the infozine Meta Trends (January 2054). Some of the information presented in the article has been disputed by various sources. Believe it at your own risk. As always, electronic readers of this file are invited to post their own comments and observations. Believe them at your own risk as well.]

– Captain Chaos 08:21:51/2-23-54

If dragons are beasts of legend, why is it that modern Man can periodically flip a cable channel and find one alternately babbling good-naturedly on some fascinating (to him) facet of human society or having an equally good-natured chat with a celebrity of the moment? Why is it that a dragon, once the bane of Saint George, the near-consumer of darling/annoying Bilbo, and the quarry of knights-gallant has his own talk show? The answer, very simply, is ratings and power.

›››››[Yeah, when a great dragon asks for his own trideo show, are you gonna be the one to tell him no?]

– X-VP 02:13:1312-25-54

To understand Dunklezahn even somewhat, one must look back to his first appearance. The dragon's arrival in Denver on January 27, 2012, only weeks after the first appearance of others of its kind, was notable not only for his examination and inspection of that steel-and-concrete sprawl, but for the exuberance he displayed in doing so. The handful of dragons seen to that date had been aloof, elusive, and the subject of fevered and often reactionary public and media debate. Suddenly, there was this great beast of mythology utterly and completely fascinated by the concept and workings of a simple automobile. The impact was tremendous.

Quickly, the great media machine sprang into action. While the military tried to seal up the area around Cherry Creek Lake where the great dragon snoozed, reporters from all over the globe battled for an interview with him. The winner was then-neophyte and local second-string, early-evening weekend anchorwoman Holly Brighton. Through not without some technical hitches, the resulting interview, 12 hours and 16 minutes of mind-boggling questions and answers, give and take, banter and blather, between the quasi- intellectual Brighton and the towering dragon Dunklezahn gave humanity its first real clues to the breadth and depth of the Awakening. The kicker was that Dunklezahn, amazed and befuddled at the world in which he had awakened, was still savvy enough to insist on an above-the-line cut of the profits from the sale of the interview tapes. It is estimated that those sales alone netted the dragon over $13 million dollars, tax-free.

It was also at that time that Dunklezahn began his association with the first of his three 'interpreters'. Though the dragon was able to quickly learn to communicate in English (with the assistance of magic, he explained), getting his comments recorded onto videotape proved a tremendous task. Dragons, it was discovered, do not 'speak' in the way that humans do, expelling air across a constantly changing landscape of tongue, teeth, and lip, but instead through a 'thought-voice'. clearly understandable by all those to whom the dragon chooses to speak. Unfortunately, microphones are immune to thought-speak.

The solution was found in a local Denver resident, a young black man named John Timmons, who agreed to 'speak', for the dragon and relate the words spoken into his head. Together, the unearthly presence of the dragon and the carefully modulated words of the young divinity student cap- tured the imagination of millions. Many sociologists today agree that were it not for the powerful but calming presence of Dunklezahn in the early days of the Awakening, mankind's reaction to the changes to the world and humanity itself might have been far more traumatic.

Dunklezahn maintained an informational-business relationship with Holly Brighton until her retirement from media in 2042, and he allowed her exclusive access for that time. The dragon gave Brighton status and respectability, and she in turn gave him humanity. Timmons remained the voice of the dragon in the media and in public. In return, Timmons' own words became a major voice in Post-Awakened North American Protestantism, where he preached tolerance and clear-mindedness against a tide of religious reactionism. The exact relationship between the three has been hotly argued, but what is clear is that the three needed and used each other to achieve their individual goals. Brighton and Timmons both wanted notoriety for their own reasons. And Dunklezahn the dragon, like a great mythological Willy Loman, simply wanted to be liked.

Timmons' relationship with the dragon ended in 2022 when he was killed by a assassin with connections to the burgeoning anti-metahuman movement. Police were unable to question the killer because he made the mistake of taking his shot in the presence of Dunklezahn. The dragon, eyewitnesses reported, reduced the gunman to his component flaming atoms with a glance. Critics of the dragon were harsh, questioning why with all his power Dunklezahn had been unable to stop the assassination from occurring. Normally verbose, Dunklezahn remains silent on the matter.

›››››[Of course he has; he arranged for the head-shot. Timmons, though he'd been a valuable mouthpiece, was starting to feel his real power as part of the chaotic Post-Awakened Protestant Church. Word is that he was preparing to end his relationship with the dragon and reveal all.]

– Gossip Hound 08:22:09/2-24-54

›››››[This is a fraggin' great dragon we're talking about! First off, you don't think he could have kept Timmons quiet if he'd wanted to? (Assuming there was a reason in the first place.) Second, if you're one of the most powerful magical beings on the face of the planet, why rely on some goon with a cheap hunting rifle? Timmons nearly survived, you know.]

– Untouchable 11:28:42/3-1-54

›››››[What, dragons don't know healing magic??]

– Doctor Dave 10:19:27/3-5-54

Dunklezahn remained without a "voice" until 2028 (resulting in some bizarre one-sided interviews between Holly Brighton and the dragon.) In the spring of that year, the dragon began using a young woman named Terri Ann Riberio. Riberio, like Brighton, was a neophyte reporter when 'discovered' by the dragon. A perky and personable 'voice' for the dragon, Riberio proved popular enough even without Dunklezahn that she moved on to a somewhat successful, if not noteworthy, acting career in 2039.

›››››[It's also interesting to note that Riberio has to date refused, despite offers of tremendous sums of money, to create a tell-all program about her years with the dragon, let alone be interviewed about the subject. Integrity, or something else?]

– Publisher 03:17:15/2-26-54

›››››[Yeah, fear of getting on a great dragon's drek list. Makes sense to me.]

– Carnival Barker 10:27:50/3-1-54

›››››[Ah, but such a manuscript does exist, I understand. Riberio keeps it as insurance. If she dies "oddly," it goes public. A fairly common and usually successful insurance technique. Of course, should Dunklezahn find it…]

– Winner 12:01:57/3-1-54

During the five years prior to that, Dunklezahn had begun spending vast sums to create his current "lair"‚ a sprawling retreat on the shores of Lake Louise in the Athabaskan Council, southwest of Edmonton. It serves not only as a tourist attraction and high-technology entertainment resort, but as the dragon's personal feudal domain. Though the legal basis for Dunklezahn's claim to the land is still unclear, there is little doubt that the great dragon is lord and king over all he surveys. (And, considering the phenomenal destructive power displayed by the great eastern dragon Aden when it razed Teheran in 2020, it is doubtful that anyone in the Athabaskan Council has ever seriously considered attempting to reclaim the land, let alone collect taxes.) The Lake Louise resort is known not only for its quasi-medieval splendor, but for the incredibly sophisticated virtual reality (VR) technology available there. Guests can participate in incredible adventures, witness stunning real and imagined vistas, and generally risk life and limb without leaving the comfort of their recliner. The resort's technology is operated by VisionQuest, the former Ares Macrotechnology VR lab purchased by Dunklezahn in 2037. Today, the continually advancing technology of the VisionQuest hardware is considered state-of-the-art for a direct-feed VR experience. The dragon himself seems fascinated by the concept of virtual reality, its applications and implications. Dragons, he is quoted as saying, have a unique understanding of reality, and anything that claims to create or define reality is of great interest to him.

›››››[I've heard that Dunklezahn himself has attempted a direct neural-tap VR feed with no success. Guess he's stuck using those stupid archaic helmets and gloves. Quite an image, eh?]

– Bowman 07:26:30/3-1-54

›››››[VisionQuest is very aggressive about maintaining its technological lead. I understand it's about to begin another expansion and will be looking to increase its staff. Since the wiz-kings with the real skill are as protected as an orbital banking system, you can expect some rather violent recruiting. High on this list: Dr. Michael Denaris of Fuchi, Dr. Ellen Brand Koch of Renraku, and Dr. Estaban Wallech of Brilliant Genesis.]

– Insider 10:18:51/3-4-54

The dragon's current "voice" is one Nadja Daviar, an Eastern European elven beauty with a mesmerizing voice and no personal history on record. She has held that position since 2039 and reigns over the Lake Louise resort like its queen. Holly Brighton, who resides in retirement at the resort and still wields considerable power within the dragon's sphere of influence, is frequently at odds with Daviar. Brighton's greatest influence seems to be over Dunklezahn's periodic talk-commentary trideo program "Wyrm Talk."

›››››[lt's been continually reported that Daviar has some connection to the Polish intelligence community, though no information beyond that has ever surfaced. I'll bet that Brighton would pay mucho dinero for that kind of paydata.]

– Ex-Pat 03:02:09/3-12-54

The dragon began the semi-annual program the year following Brighton's retirement from media and has produced over two dozen editions of the program. Topics range from trite celebrity interviews and profiles to frighteningly insightful commentary on culture and society. The dragon's current program is overdue, and word from the production studio is that Dunklezahn remains undecided about its scope or subject. However, no one on the production staff even knows the topics the great dragon is considering. Regardless, the choice and result will undoubtedly be fascinating on some level, as well as a ratings bonanza.

›››››[I'm on the production staff for "Wyrm Talk" (yes, you could see my name on the credits if you knew where to look) and "undecided" is an understatement for the Big D's (as he's referred to in the studio) state of mind these days. Angst-ridden is more like it. At the heart of who and what Dunklezahn is is his fascination with humanity, specifically human interaction. He's amazed by how we relate to each other, or don't. The whole VR setup in Lake Louise is designed so that he can observe people reacting to things and each other. What's got him upset (though that may be too strong a word for a dragon) is that he knows something he thinks everyone (read: humanity) should know about. Why doesn't he just say? I don't know. Will he say? I don't know either.]

– More Than Best Boy 07:17:16/3-10-64

›››››[Maybe he's silent because others don't think humanity is ready to know everything and have warned him against it. If so, just who out there is powerful enough to tell a great dragon what to do? Think about it – it'll keep you up at night.]

– Frosty 05:10:12/3-12-54

THE DUELISTS

Written by Diane Piron-Gelman and Robert Cruz, based on stories by Jonathan Szeto

› Sysop: You are in the War Stories room.

› Sounds like one helluva run, Jo.

› Hellcab

› Buy me a beer and I'll tell you about an even better one.

› Josie Cruise

› (pop/fwsshhh/gluglugluglug) Bought and poured, Jo-girl. Spill.

› Hellcab

› I'll trust you for one in the meatworld (fool that I am…). Okay. I was in Calfree last spring, part of a team pulling a job on Yamatetsu. The corp had a hush-hush R D compound up in the Northern Crescent, not far from Blue Lake. Our Johnson thought they were up to something biogenetically questionable (to put it nicely), and wanted us to get two kinds of proof: data and a sample. Get in, snatch the goodies and get out again-my specialty.

So we headed out from Redding, got as near to the compound as we could by off-roader, then bailed and started hoofing. I'm not going to bore you with the rigger's-eye-view of the ride up; half the folks on this board know what that's like, and anyways nothing happened. The fun stuff all came later.

Our Johnson was amazingly well-informed about the place she'd sent us to hit, so we had a pretty fair idea of where its defensive perimeter was. Yamatetsu had built the place in a little hollow between two hills-half inside the northernmost hill, to be exact. So we hunkered down just shy of the top of the southmost hill, and I called up a couple of Condors to go have a look-see.

You gotta love a Condor LDSD-23. Especially when it answers to a cranial remote deck. I got to try out almost all my new toys on this run… but I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyways, for those few of you who don't know, the Condor's damned near the ultimate stealth drone. It soars up on its little balloon and sleazes right by a whole mess of sensors and radar, and not one of them sniffs a thing. My remote deck let me see the world through the drone's eyes, giving me as clear a picture of the compound's perimeter defenses as if I'd walked straight up to the fence and stuck my nose through it. Better, actually. The naked meat eye doesn't give you thermo or infrared unless you're the right metatype, and the metahuman nose can't chemsniff half as well as the chemical sensors my Condor was packing.

The Condor showed me about what I'd've expected from a hush-hush R D compound-security was tight enough to safeguard the important drek inside, but nowhere near impossible. In a place like the Northern Crescent, if you're setting up secret shop and don't want to attract attention, you really can't afford to dress up the outside of your research playground with every single bell and whistle ever thunk up by Ares Macrotech and Knight-Errant and other purveyors of paranoiac pacifiers. You have to pick and choose, and layer your defenses. So I knew that getting the team through the perimeter was only going to be half the battle. Once I'd managed that, I'd have to take over the building's systems if I could-which meant going head-to-head with the security rigger we'd been told was there, probably. I was looking forward to it; things'd been kind of slow lately.

But first things first. The compound had a fence around the three sides that weren't under the hill, with tall skinny pillars spaced intermittently across it that I recognized as sensor posts. Motion and infrared, most likely. Through the fence I could also see Ferrets and Dobermans and even a couple of Guardians crawling along, patroling the perimeter a lot more tirelessly and efficiently than meat guards would've done. (Cheaper, too; a drone doesn't need pay or health benefits and never takes personal time.) There were also gun emplacements, on the two fence corners and lined up across the roofline of the building. Sentry guns; I could tell by the shape. Not the mobile kind on a track, though. Likely they'd reserved those and the Sentry IIs for inside.

So I had my work cut out for me. I had to take out the sensor posts, drones and Sentries all in one shot, so the rest of the team could get up to the fence and through it without getting cut down by a hail of lead. Also without being spotted. The sec-rigger would know something was going down the minute I started to muck with his system, especially considering the level of mucking that was clearly going to be necessary-but the longer we could keep the opposition from knowing exactly what they were up against, the more time we'd buy for ourselves. And our job wouldn't take us that long.

I called my eye-in-the-sky back and whistled up three more drones. These had special jobs to do. Two of them were remote-adapted Artemises loaded with Jabberwockies, primed and ready to fire. The third drone, which I sent in first, was my favorite new toy: a Hedgehog signal interceptor, the very latest in seeing-eye techno-beasts.

›

› Where in the name of the Great Ghost did you get a Hedgehog?! I thought the Azzies put a tight lock on distribution. They went to a lot of trouble to develop that puppy; they sure as drek don't want street scum like us getting ahold of them. What'd you do, sell your soul to Old Scratch or something?

› Nissan Barb

› Fell off the back of a t-bird, my fixer said. When somebody I trust offers me a new piece of wizbang tech, I don't ask too many questions. The important thing is, I got it, and I used it when I needed it. Now don't interrupt my story; I'm on a roll here, 'kay?

The Hedgehog's a terrific piece of equipment. No rigger who can afford one should be without it, I don't care who you have to frag over or go to bed with. What this pup does, it tells you the signal strength, protocols and encryption that a system is using. In other words, the Hedgehog gave me the key to the compound's entire electronic security system just by reading the kinds of signals flowing through those sensor posts. Giving me the shape and smell and taste of it, so to speak. (Not literally-but sometimes it's hard to put what a rigger gets from a drone into words that ordinary people can understand.) All this stuff was vital information that'd make the second half of my job-taking over the building system-that much quicker and easier.

Its job done, the Hedgehog crawled back. I shut it down and told the Artemises to fire their payload in ten seconds, then sent them soaring toward the fence. And braced myself against the hillside so I wouldn't fall over, because I knew I'd get it when the Jabberwockies hit. A Jabberwocky is a jammer missile, which disperses transponders instead of a warhead. The transponder signals frag up sensors, remote-control transmissions, you name it, for a fifty-yard or wider radius around the point of impact. So whatever disruption they caused, the Artemises they rode on would get nailed by it too. And since I was talking to the Artemises via remote deck, I knew I'd feel the backlash until I broke the link. But in the meantime, all those sensors and perimeter drones and even the seeing-eyes on the Sentry guns'd be blind and deaf and dumb. Which meant no security rigger was going to spot my team getting through the fence and inside.

›

› Jeez. Why not just walk up to the front gate and shout hello? You take out such a huge chunk of a rigged building's security systems, the rigger's gonna know the place is under attack. No way can you pass that off as a malfunction, or a hair-trigger sensor tripped by a high wind.

› Silent Running

› You missed a paragraph somewhere, didn't you? My team knew fragging well we were tipping corpsec off-but as long as they didn't know how big the threat was or exactly where it was coming from, all they could do was chase their tails. We figured to be in and gone before they twigged enough to matter. And we were right.

I counted down in my head, then watched the world turn black and go dizzy for a few seconds until I closed off the link with the Artemises. I felt the rest of the team run by me, over the hill and down. While the mage tended to the magical barriers and the sams chopped through the wire, I crawled backward just enough to be completely out of range of Jabberwocky spillover, then called up the rest of my drone network. Wandjinas with Vanquishers mounted on them, these were; fast and deadly, just the thing for taking out perimeter drones. And I had to do that, both to keep myself safe once I started monkeying with the sensor port's datalines and also to keep the drones from bothering my buds on their way back out. The Jabberwocky jamming'd only keep the drones blind and deaf for so long; once it started to wear off, all those Ferrets and Dobermans and Guardians with their little turret guns would pose quite the nasty problem. Unless my Wandjinas took care of them first.

It's a weird, weird feeling, seeing through the eyes of half a dozen drones at once. Kind of like what I imagine bug eyes must be like-all those facets showing you overlapping pictures. Except that in my case, the pictures were different instead of the same image from different angles. To run a network like that through a cranial remote deck-or any kind of wiring, for that matter-you've got to be good at multi-tasking. If you can't concentrate on a dozen things at one time before breakfast, then don't even try this stuff. You'll just make yourself sick trying to track everything, and somebody else'll have to risk her hoop bailing you out of trouble. I don't have a problem with it; but then, I was the kind of kid who liked looking at those crazy optical-illusion prints with the upside-down staircases and stuff. I sent my Wandjinas around the edges of the Jabberwockies' area of effect-couldn't send them through it, or they'd be as blind as the sec-drones they were hunting-and waited for a clear target.

Then came the first sign of trouble. A pair of Condors appeared, floating high and distant over the top of the compound. Nuyen to noodles they were outside Jabberwocky range. They weren't mine, so I knew they could only have come from one source. The sec-rigger'd figured out that Something Big was up, and had sent a couple of spies to find out what the frag was going on.

Well, I'd expected that. Not quite so soon, though; when I finally got to tangling mano a mano with this guy, he was going to be good. The enemy Condors weren't armed, so I ignored them and got on with the primary task: nailing the daylights out of the blinded perimeter drones, some of which were still spinning around in crazed circles. At first my Wandjinas made short work of them. After awhile, though, I saw some of the ones that'd stopped dead starting to move-sluggishly, but with purpose. They were getting out of the Wandjinas' line of fire, and a couple of Guardians were even starting to swing their turrets back and forth. Bad news for me-either the Jabberwocky effect was wearing off or the sec-rigger was using a little ECCM to overcome the Jabberwocky interference. Either way, it meant I didn't have much time. I had to take over the building system before the perimeter drones recovered, or I'd be their sitting duck.

I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and ran up to the nearest sensor post. The access panel was easy to spot; I blew the lock on it with a short strip of acid solder, then pulled a decryption module out of the duffel. Tech-heads like me use this little hand-held meter doohickey to analyze and decrypt CCSS protocols. My Hedgehog had already told me the system was encrypted, which let me bypass the usual step of plugging in a protocol emulation module and using it to figure out what was there. Took lots less time this way, which was vital on this particular run.

I found the junction box and carefully opened the cover plate, exposing the optic cables and electrical wires inside. Then I took out my microtronics kit and delicately spliced my own leads into the system. As I started to connect the free ends of the splice into the decrypt module, I felt a bullet punch me in the side and flatten itself against my armor. The sec-rigger had managed to get at least some of his toys working again. I had to take care of them before jacking into the building system, or they'd take care of me. Lucky thing I'd brought along a signal amplifier.

The output from the signal booster let me call the Wandjinas in closer, within the range of the fading Jabberwocky interference. Thank the Ghost in the Machine for those boosters, and for the Battletac IVIS system some bright tech so recently came up with. Makes a combat-drone network sooo much easier to deal with… and leaves part of a rigger's mind free to take on another job, like connecting illicit wiretaps and turning on a decrypt module. The 'jinas took out a Ferret and a Guardian that were far too close for comfort. Now, I thought, and jacked in.

Overriding a security rig is a tough job. Unlike decking, you can't rely on a clever bag of tricks to outwit any IC or other deckers you happen across. Instead, it's a pure battle of wills between you and the sec-rigger. The toughest mind wins; the loser usually ends up brain-fried or dead.

›

› Just for the record, decking into a system is NOT easy. And I resent any implication to the contrary.

› E-slipper

› Didn't mean to rile you, E. I didn't say decking was easy. But it is different than the way a rigger taps into a system. I just wanted to get that point across.

And now back to our feature presentation…

A flood of images and voices surrounded me, as if I'd invaded someone else's brain (which, in a way, I had). I built a mental wall around myself as fast as I could, then formed a fist of pure willpower and struck out hard at the source of the flood. I felt an echo of dizzy pain as the blow connected-then a wallop, much more immediate and powerful enough to send my virtual self sprawling on my hoop. The sec-rigger was fighting back-and as I'd guessed, he was no slouch in the battle-of-wills department. I could feel the shape and weight of his virtual body, saw the two of us locked together in a wrestling hold. One or the other would have to give, and I was determined it wouldn't be me.

Distantly, as if my meat body belonged to someone else, I felt the impact of more bullets against my heavy armor. I ordered my Wandjinas to redouble their assault. A few seconds later I felt the sec-rigger reel away from me, and I knew that one of my drones had blown up one of his. Impressive that he'd managed to hang in; half the time, a direct hit on a drone you're controlling will dump you right out of the system. It isn't only deckers who have to worry about dump shock.

The next minute, that worry hit me over the head with all the subtlety of a tire iron. A Guardian got off a lucky shot that took out one of my Wandjinas, and the resulting nasty feedback damned near made me black out from pain. But I couldn't afford to black out. I had to win this fight or die trying.

My control of the rest of my drone network was hanging by a thread. Sick and dizzy, trying to ignore the red-and-black flashes that kept cutting across my vision, I pulled a sneaky tactic that had the added virtue of not demanding mental effort. I pushed a button on my decrypt module and sent a complicated encrypt protocol down the dataline. As I expected, the sec-drones that had been moving toward me slowed down, then stopped. None of them fired. My little encryption trick had slowed the sec-rigger's response time dramatically while he tried to sort out just what the frag I'd done. Now I had time to shake off the not-quite-dump-shock and sneak up on the fragger.

I focused inward, then made an even bigger mental fist and slammed it down on the ghostly outlines of the sec-rigger's virtual body. As his mind wavered under the impact, I wrapped my virtual arms around his middle and squeezed. Hard. His virtual shape began to collapse, curling into a fetal position and then melting into a shapeless mass.

Then his collapse speeded up. He was trying to wriggle out of my grip before I throttled him into a coma. A dark hole of nothing suddenly opened nearby, and the sec-rigger flowed toward it. Little fragger was trying to jack out. I stretched out a virtual leg and blocked the entrance to the hole, then wrapped around the sec-rigger again and squeezed some more until I couldn't sense his presence anywhere in the system.

I'd won. I was the building now; I could feel every square inch of it, plus all the perimeter drones that had been doing their level best to knock out my Wandjinas. First thing I did was order the sec-drones to back off. I kept them active, though, in case I might need them to help my buds on the way out. (That old martial-arts rule is dead on target; use your enemy's strength against him as much as you can. Saves you the trouble of doing all the work yourself, and surprises the hell out of the bad guys.) The next thing I did was find my team, just in time to open some convenient doors for them without tripping any alarms. I also kept track of the Yamatetsu security guards, alerted to trouble by the security rigger before I'd dealt with him. Thanks to my Jabberwockies, they had no idea who was attacking their facility or where the team was; they jogged up and down corridors at random, not knowing where to go. For the sheer fun of it, I set off a gaggle of motion sensors several hundred yards away from where my team was. The razorboys dashed off, each of them eager to be the first one to nail himself a real live intruder.

Needless to say, we pulled off the run and were well compensated for it. Which just goes to show what a talented rigger can do-especially if she spends her cred wisely.

› Josie Cruise

MISSION IMPROBABLE

Written by Diane Piron-Gelman and Robert Cruz, based on stories by Jonathan Szeto

It started as a simple job. (How many times have you heard that in your life!) I should have known; few things in my life are ever simple, but that's what you get when you're a smuggler and sometime runner, making your living outsmarting the Powers That Be. I'd been hired by a Johnson to retrieve a certain package from an island that lay in Salish territory, which made sending a ground team a difficult proposition. Border crossings and fake datawork and all, you know-and it'd have to be good datawork, in case the Salish authorities decided to get picky about "interlopers" from the UCAS. Good, of course, meaning expensive. Even at my hefty fee, I was cheaper than the usual running team. The Johnson and her up-front cred checked out, so I took the job. A simple helicopter flight out to the island, a quick in-and-out, return trip and a hand-over-easy money, I thought.

I drove my favorite car to the place where I'd hidden my 'copter away. She was my pride and joy, that Airstar-a good sturdy workhorse of a vehicle, with plenty of nifty mods I'd made myself. Any decent rigger, in my opinion, also ought to be a halfway decent mechanic-especially a rigger like me, who couldn't always count on a talented and discreet mechanic turning up if a smuggling run went sour.

I waved hello to the maintenance crew, but didn't make much small talk. No time to chat when biz was waiting to be done. They gave me an all-systems-go report, which was all I needed to hear. I strode up to the Airstar, checked to make sure I had plenty of ammo for my gun, then climbed into the pilot's seat.

I jacked into the helicopter's rig and the virtual heads-up display blossomed before my eyes. Dizziness hit me for a split second; then my mind adjusted to the blizzard of input from the view screens, which were arrayed before me like the many facets of a cut diamond. The screens showed views from every angle, as well as numerous data displays. At the moment, the largest screen, positioned squarely in the center, displayed the status of the Airstar's system as it warmed up.

As I summoned the helicopter to life, I could feel the rumble of the Pratt Whitney turbojet engines in my chest. The chopper's blades seemed to rotate in sync with the blood pulsing through my limbs. I shifted into forward visual mode; a small icon blinked in a corner of the main view screen, indicating that the hangar door had opened. I was cleared for takeoff.

I pulled my legs into a crouch. The rotating blades went from a whine to a roar in response. I leaped upward and the helicopter rose, slowly but surely soaring upward through the rooftop hangar door. Once I'd gotten several dozen meters above the roof of the warehouse, I set the chopper to hovering briefly as I scanned the Seattle sprawl far below. The low background levels of thermal and electromagnetic radiation emanating from the city showed up as a dull red and green glow in my display. I spotted no active radiation sources, which meant no one was watching right now.

I turned my attention to the navigational screen. It showed my target destination as a red dot, a tiny island of hot brightness in the deep, cool blue of the Pacific Ocean. With another flicker of thought I commanded the screen to display known sensor watch posts. They appeared as small radar-dish icons giving off white waves.

I swiftly plotted a course that eluded most of the lookout points, then stretched my arms over my head, twisted my body toward Puget Sound, and swept my arms down to my sides. The Airstar turned and sped toward the moonlight that glinted off the Sound.

This was going to be a cakewalk. Breeze on out to the target, pick up the package and come back home. I'd be back in time for happy hour at the Shack-and this time able to pay my tab, and just maybe buy a round or three for a certain pretty lady I'd had my eye on recently. Yep, this was just the kind of job I liked best…

Suddenly the chopper's warning klaxons started screaming. I turned my head and my visual display rotated until the rear view screen occupied my central window. On it I saw two dark flecks against the pink and gray pre-dawn sky. The Airstar's Identify Friend or Foe transponders identified the craft as two F-B Eagle interceptors from the UCASAF's Fifth Air Wing based at McChord.

Before I could make another move, bright spurts of thermographic orange blossomed under the wings of both interceptors and the helicopter's targeting alarm began to shriek. A warning message flashed on my heads-up display-both interceptors had locked on to the Airstar and fired air-to-air missiles.

Instinctively, I arched my body toward the coastline, a movement that turned the helicopter. At the same time I started kicking my legs furiously like an Olympic swimmer, sending the chopper screaming toward the land. But my evasive action didn't fool the missiles' targeting sensors. The deadly projectiles twisted and dove after me.

Time for Plan B, then. I focused my mind on the right control, and a giant red "PANIC" button materialized under my left hand. I slapped the button. Explosive charges planted at strategic points along the chopper's body detonated, destroying the brackets that held the Airstar's outer shell in place. As the shell fell away, it revealed a second skin coated with radarbane.

I knew I wasn't out of trouble yet. I jackknifed my body toward the floor like a diver, and five small parachutes blossomed from the 'copter as it plunged into a power dive. Thermite flares swung from two of the chutes, bunched strips of aluminum chaff from two more. The last chute supported a small rocket, hardly large enough to dent a paper airplane, but containing a transponder and flare that mimicked the Airstar's thermal and electromagnetic signature. The chopper's radarbane skin would cloak it from the missile's targeting sensors, and the chaff and flares would temporarily confuse the two missiles, which would then lock on to the decoy rocket.

I hoped.

Scant seconds after I'd I punched the panic button I felt my virtual body convulse as the shock waves from two explosions rocked the helicopter. I twisted around, bringing the chopper face-to-face with my two attackers, and the direction-finding axes of the Airstar's targeting program appeared on the main view screen. I selected and armed two anti-radiation missiles, then cut them loose as soon as I heard the lock-on chirp twice. The ARMs appeared like two streaks against the sky as they homed in on the strong signals from the pursuing flyboys' jammers. A half-second later the 'copter's targeting alarm fell silent, which told me that the missiles had destroyed the F-Bs' targeting sensors. (Thank heaven for ARMs. They lock on to a target's emissions, so the stronger your opponent's sensors and jammers, the better the chance your ARMs will find their mark. The F-Bs' ECM suites would have spiked most of my weapons for sure if the flyboys'd had a chance to use them. But the ARMs homed in on the jammer signals and saved my hoop.)

Both pursuing planes wavered for a few seconds as small explosions erupted in their noses where their targeting sensors had been. Then the flyboys swung around and streaked past me, strafing the Airstar with miniguns. I kept the chopper diving toward the shoreline; I could feel my skin twitching as I pushed the Airstar beyond its limits and its body buckled under the strain.

Before the flyboys could swing around for a second pass, a green wave of Salish radar passed over my view screen. I'd entered Salish-Shidhe airspace-safe territory for me as far as my two hunters were concerned. (Though not exactly safe per se…) The zoomies broke off pursuit, apparently unwilling to risk an international incident for one lone 'copter. After a few seconds I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd heard no warnings from Salish air-traffic control, which meant it hadn't detected me.

I swung the Airstar lower until it almost skimmed the treetops-best way to avoid future encounters-while a nagging question formed in the back of my mind. Why had the two zoomies tried to shoot me down with no warning? I'd had plenty of run-ins with Salish and UCAS jet jockeys during past smuggling runs, but they'd never opened fire without issuing some kind of warning or threat first. This geek-first-warn-later bulldrek-that was a Lone Star trick. Not the kind of thing I was used to getting from fellow flyers, even if they were the Law and I wasn't.

The glowing orange orb of the sun, just rising over the horizon ahead of me, was beginning to dispel the shadows on the land below. Too bad it could shed no light on my question. I'd eluded my flying foes for now, but I couldn't run forever. Sooner or later I had to go to ground, and then they'd find me.

Well, what the hell. Maybe I could still do what I'd been hired to do before the cavalry showed up.

I landed the Airstar right where the Johnson had told me to, then holstered my Ingram and set out to retrieve the package. I briefly wondered what was in it-something worth sending air jockeys after a lone 'copter, maybe? And how had they known who I was?-but swiftly dismissed such speculation as useless. Smugglers who live to spend their earnings learn not to ask unnecessary questions.

The McNeil Island Penitentiary Compound was looming dead ahead. It had been abandoned for years, but the Johnson had warned me that "unfriendly people" would likely be watching the place. I knew I'd have to make an unorthodox entrance, but I still wasn't looking forward to it. I reached the entry spot, took a deep breath, braced myself, and lowered myself down into the storm sewer that led to the compound's central building.

After wading through stinking raw sewage for what seemed like hours, I finally came to the manhole I was looking for. I shoved it to one side, pulled myself up out of the sewer and squeezed through the narrow aperture, cursing under my breath all the while. Then, squatting on the damp concrete floor under a heavy grating, I looked around as best I could in the dim light.

I'd fetched up in a maintenance trench under the ground floor of the main building. I could see the outlines of power cables and plumbing pipes; they smelled of rust and rot. Hulking overhead, toward the back of the trench, I spotted several giant shadows-turbines, which meant I must be under the plant's power room.

I was reaching up to lift the grating when a faint grinding noise froze me in place. Then I heard the telltale whine of a laboring combustion engine, growing gradually louder as it came my way. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I saw a dark shadow rumble over the grating. I withdrew my fingers as the thing rolled to a stop directly above me.

It was a patrol drone-an FMC Sentinel. Only slightly larger than a kid's wagon, it was equipped with tank treads to cover rough terrain, and it packed enough firepower to ruin any shadowrunner's day. If it detected me, it would certainly ruin mine.

Soundlessly I unlatched the magazine in my Ingram, then reached into my cargo pocket and withdrew a 30-round clip of armor-piercing, silicone-coated depleted-uranium shells. As quietly as I could, I loaded the clip, then flipped the fire-mode selector switch to AUTO and poked the barrel between the chinks in the grating.

For the first time that night I was glad to be skulking in a sewer. If I'd run into the Sentinel above ground, I wouldn't have stood a chance of destroying it before it spotted me. But like most drones designed for security work and perimeter detail, the Sentinel's underbelly was fitted with light armor. After all, no one expects a security drone to run into anti-tank mines. Sparks flew as I cut loose with the Ingram and punched several rounds through the Sentinel's steel skin. The bullets ripping into its innards touched off electrical fires inside the drone, making it sputter and pop. A loud explosion knocked me backward as a stray round burst through the fuel tank. I scurried away as burning fuel began raining down into the trench.

Within minutes the place was crawling with drones. I had to expend the rest of my APDU and one thermite grenade before I found a ventilation duct to hide in. Crawling through the network of ventilation shafts up to the top floor took me about two hours. When I finally squirmed out of the narrow shaft, I landed clumsily in a darkened hallway. To my right was a security door, with an electronic keypad directly above the knob. Assuming I'd kept the map in my head straight through all the twists and turns of the ventilator shafts, the package should be inside.

I loaded another magazine, emptied the Ingram into the lock and kicked the door open. A quick reload later, I cautiously surveyed the room. It had been some grunt's office once, indistinguishable from a hundred others. A computer terminal sat on top of a cheap plaswood desk, both of them covered with dust.

I walked over to the terminal. A chip was loaded in one of its drive slots. I opened the desk's top drawer-just as I'd hoped, there were a few thumbtacks still rolling around in it. I took out a thumbtack, stuck its pointy end in the slot and wiggled it around until the chip popped out. Package retrieved.

I'd hardly turned around when alarm klaxons started blaring all around me. The sound of running feet came from the corridor outside; no exit that way. I turned wildly toward the office's sole window, only to see a curtain of thin steel plates ripple down to cover it. The sharp thud of the door hitting the wall made me spin back around, Ingram raised, to confront my new enemy-four armored security guards whose uniform patches I didn't recognize. All of their guns were pointed straight at me.

For about five seconds, nobody moved. Then I heard a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said my Johnson as she sauntered into the room. "You can put the guns away now."

As the sec-boys lowered their weapons, the Johnson gave me a brilliant smile. "Congratulations, Roy," she said. "You passed."

I eased my grip on the Ingram a fraction… but only a fraction. "This was a test? Just a test?"

"I needed to find out if you were worth your reputation," she answered. "And it seems you are. You've been quite resourceful. I can't afford anything less-not for the job I have in mind."

"And the chip?" Curiosity was fighting with anger now. I decided it couldn't hurt me to let curiosity win. "Is it something, or just worthless drek?"

"Oh, it's something, all right." The Johnson laughed softly. "Consider it your payment for today's work, should you decide you'd rather not be part of the real mission." She gave me a measuring look, then continued. "Would you care to hear about it?"

"You'd really let me leave now? Just like that?"

"Just like that. I need willing participants, Roy, not just hired guns who might decide to cut and run when things get more dangerous than they bargained for. From what I learned about you before setting up this little excursion, I'd say you might be a willing participant-once you know everything. But for the moment… " She gave me another sizing-up look. "What are your feelings about the Draco Foundation?"

I nearly dropped the Ingram in surprise. "Can't say I have any, one way or the other," I managed to say after a moment. "Why? Are you working for them or against them?"

"For." Another soft laugh. "Oh, definitely for. Which I'll prove to your satisfaction, if you want to hear about the job. Over dinner. You choose the restaurant-though I will say, I'm partial to Thai."

I holstered the Ingram. "I know a place in Tacoma. Roong Petch. Hole in the wall, but it serves the best yellow curry in town."

"You can still back out after dinner," she said. "I'll tell you enough to let you know what you're likely in for, not so much that you'll be a danger to us if you refuse. As I said, I need more than just hired guns."

I nodded toward the door. "Time's wasting, ma'am-and I'm getting hungry."

She smiled at that-a warm smile that lit up her blue eyes. I had a nagging feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before-and not on this job, either-but dismissed it as smuggler's paranoia. As I followed her and the sec-boys out of the room, I wondered just what kind of drek-pile I might be getting myself into. You know the old saying-never deal with a dragon, or with a dragon's employees…

A NIGHT IN THE LIFE

Written by Diane Piron-Gelman and Robert Cruz, based on stories by Jonathan Szeto

I shoulda known it wouldn't be a simple run. It never is. The minute they call it a no-brainer, you know somethin's gonna go wrong. Bad wrong. Real, real bad wrong. And it sure's hell did on this milk run. Double-crossin' Johnson, not enough homework, whatever-somebody somewheres fragged up good, and we all pretty near paid for it in blood.

But at least I've still got Demon. It'll take awhile 'fore she's patched up and runnin' again, but she's still among the living. A survivor, that's what she is. Like me.

It started when we met the Johnson-fella in a Vashon Island knockoff suit and a porkpie hat who smelled like cheap cigars. Said he was a private detective, working for some small-time CEO wannabe who was tryin' to buy out another itty-bitty corp. Wanted "evidence of business fraud," which the detective said was in the computer systems of the little corp's HQ. Natch, the system was closed off from the Matrix, so the Johnson needed us to bust in and sit our decker down in front of the boss's terminal. I guess we shoulda asked why he couldn't hire himself a decker solo and sneak the both of 'em in through a window-but we'd all gone a time between jobs, and cred was gettin' tight. A milk run looked like a good deal, so we took it. And my part looked easiest of all-drive my buds 'cross town, drop 'em off in the warehouse district, keep an eye peeled outside while they got down to it inside, and then drive 'em away fast. No trick atall for a rigger like me, with ten years of street smarts and the fastest fraggin' Leyland-Rover in the 'plex. Souped up her engine my own self, and did a fraggin' good job. What could go wrong?

So I jacked into Speed Demon that night and roared down Intercity 5 toward the rendezvous. Round midnight on the open road… my favorite place, my favorite time. There is nothin', but nothin', in this world as free and easy and flat-out wonderful as jacking into your wheels and flyin' down the highway at whosiwhatever-klicks-per-hour. Felt lighter than air with just me in the van; I knew that'd change once my buds were on board, but for now I soared down that road like I might take off at the end of it.

'Cept for the occasional cold wreck, the highway was empty-not a heat sig in sight for klicks. Just as well, considering-at oh-dark-hundred hours, anybody sane'd know better'n to hit the highways. Roving go-gangs like to prowl late, lookin' for unsuspecting drivers to play with. Course, I don't claim to be sane. Sane's just another word for boring as dirt. 'Sides, there was other prey for gangbangers tonight. The Spike Wheels, who claimed turf on my side of the I-5, were busy huntin' down Eye-Fivers in revenge for last night's rumble. They weren't likely to come messing with The Stuntman.

So I flew on down the road toward the night's run. Demon's visual sensors spun a rainbow around me; I saw sodium-yellow lamps flittin' overhead and blinkin' neon billboards of every color flashin' by. Off leftward I spotted the industrial district, glowin' red as a hellhound's eyes on the thermo-sensors. Flashes of chlorine green lit up the car's microwave radar-spikes from solar flare eruptions, which mess up E-M profile like nobody's business. But little drek like that didn't bother me. Me an' Demon were roadrunnin', and by the end of the night I expected to have my hands on enough cred to finally buy the new set of tires I'd been promisin' her for weeks. Ain't nice to make promises and not keep 'em, especially to the bundle of bolts you depend on to save your hoop.

I shoulda known it was too good to last.

I reached the rendezvous and picked up the team-two sams, a decker and a street shaman. With me driving getaway, Rocker and Punch packing guns and chrome, Zipdrive to surf the electrons and Catseye to take care of any magical drek (best to be prepared for everything if you want to spend your pay), we figured we were all set. And we woulda been if the set-up had been what the Johnson advertised.

Demon took us crosstown to the warehouse district, which useta be a decent workin' neighborhood until the jobs dried up and the big-money boys quit paying taxes. It's been slidin' down the scale from "blue-collar" to "wasteland" for years, but seems to have stopped for awhile at "seedy." The only folks 'round the district these days are outfits just like the one we'd been hired to crash: little mom-and-pop corps with big ideas, bigger hopes and small cash flow. It's cheap rent; it's also bad roads with holes and litter and broken glass. I could feel every crack in the pavement through Demon's tires, like you can feel bumps in the sidewalk through thin shoes. For sure, I told myself, for damn-fraggin-sure I'm buying those tires. First thing tomorrow. And a full tank of gas, too. I was feeling hungrier than I had any right to be, considering I'd snarfed down a whole bag of Hot'n'Ched'r cayenne-and-cheese-flavored soychips before starting out. So I knew Demon could use a refill, even though the monitors told me she had enough gas for tonight.

I turned off at Milton and Third, right where the Johnson had told us, killed the lights and coasted half a block to a decrepit-looking brick rectangle surrounded by cracked concrete and a chain-link fence. As I pulled up and stopped, I keyed Demon into stealth mode. The ruthenium fibers on her outside, electric blue when she wasn't on a job, faded to clear. I'd paid a nice chunk of change to get a radarbane paint job underneath, and this run was Demon's first since her makeover. The area around the Tacoma docks ain't as bad as either of the Barrens, but that just means that late at night you're risking small ordnance 'stead of large. Plus, the few Lone Star patrols sniffin' around tend to ask lots of nosy questions. So stealth seemed like an extra-good thing.

The rest of the team bailed, Punch in the lead and Rocker bringin' up the rear. Rocker gave me a wolf's grin as she slipped her headset on and leaned in the driver's-side window. "I'll be listening, Stunt. You see anything, give a holler."

"Chill," I said, and watched 'em go. Four little reddish blobs on thermo, bobbin' toward the big, empty building like some kinda giant fireflies. I didn't wish 'em luck; didn't wanna jinx 'em. Might as well have shouted "Good luck" at the top of my lungs, as it turned out. But right then the night was quiet, and seemed likely to stay that way.

I settled in to wait. Didn't jack out, of course-Demon's zoom lenses, magnification and external audio sensors made better eyes and ears for trouble than mine. I turned the diskplayer on, with the volume low enough not to scrag the audio feeds from outside. I had an old-style R B recording I'd been dyin' to listen to, and this seemed like the perfect time. The music would keep my brain from being lulled to sleep by the silent night, much more pleasantly than the cold rain that had started to fall. ASIST can be damned inconvenient when it comes to the weather-whatever touches your wheels, you feel just like the metal body of the car or whatever is your own skin. I tuned out the pinpricks of cold and wet as best I could-you learn to, when you've hadda rig through snowstorms a time or two-and kept the sensors peeled for danger. Didn't see a thing 'cept the occasional passing pigeon and a ripped paper bag tossed by the wind; didn't hear a thing 'cept for that same wind and the dim roar of passing traffic streets and streets away. Far off in the distance, some drunk was shouting at his girlfriend. Just the normal night noises of the city.

Then the sky started to howl, and I knew we were hosed.

Wasn't really the sky, of course. It was the building's own alarm. Howling like a herd of banshees, loud enough to bring the Star down on us right quick even if nobody inside had managed to push a PANICBUTTON. Every fraggin' po-leece patrol within a klick of the place was gonna come a-runnin'-we needed to bug out right fraggin' now. So I fired up Demon's engine, just as three little red blobs came tearing outta the building. That's right, three-one of 'em big and shapeless, which meant somebody'd got hurt and somebody else was haulin' 'em along. Followed by four more blobs, a little ways behind as yet but catching up waaay too fast for comfort. I switched from thermo to visual sensors and saw Punch pounding toward me, with Zipdrive slung over his shoulder. Rocker and Catseye were close behind, stopping every so often to shoot or sling a spell at the sec-squad following. And I saw two sec-drones, the vidcam kind with a homing beacon that'll film your sorry hoop in the criminal act and follow you all the way home. The corps love those; they can track you to your safehouse and send the footage straight to the ten-o'clock news. A one-two punch.

I popped the doors open as Punch came up. Without missin' a step, Punch slid Zippy off his shoulder and into the back seat, then threw himself in beside him. Rocker and Cat jumped in the middle. I slammed the doors and took off. The sec-boys behind let loose a hail of gunfire, none of which hit. I could hear Punch's FN-HAR talkin' back, but didn't dare look behind Demon to see if he'd got anybody. Then I heard some more shots that didn't come from Punch, and somethin' smacked me hard on the back of the head.

I thought I was dead. Just for a second I really thought one of the sec-skags'd plugged a bullet right through my meat skull. Then my brain caught up with me, and I realized I was still runnin' Demon down the road. Which meant I was still alive. With a killer headache and a weird, itchy feeling across the back of my scalp that told me the fraggin' bastard had punched a hole through Demon's rear windshield. I didn't have to see it to know that the whole thing was crazed with fracture lines. Have to replace it, I thought, while the rest of me concentrated on the road ahead. And also on the sirens that were startin' to wail all around as the neighborhood Star patrols twigged that somethin' was up. I shunted a smidgen more mental energy toward the audio sensors to sharpen the pickup; I needed to know what direction the sirens were comin' from.

The sensors gave me bad news. The Star was headin' toward us from the north and east. The place we'd hit, with its sec squad on full alert, was behind us to the south. That left just one direction for a getaway-west, toward Puget Sound. Which meant Demon and me'd have to head west far enough to slip past the Star and hope to highway hell that we didn't hit water first. Then we'd have to make a sharp turn southwards, then pedal-medal it back crosstown to the safehouse. All the while keepin' the Star off our trail, or else losin' 'em somewheres in the maze of city streets.

I always did love a challenge.

First thing, though, I hadda take care of the drones. They were clingin' close, buzzin' 'round Demon like gnats. I opened the roof and raised the Vindicator from its inside mount, braced my hands on the wheel so they'd stay steady when the ASIST recoil hit me, and fired at the nearest drone. Blew the fragger to dust, and didn't hardly swerve atall. The FN-HAR barked again as Punch sent the second drone spinnin' into the side of a building. A little puffy fireball told me the second drone wasn't a problem anymore. Which just left the Star-and they were gettin' closer.

Demon and I whipped around the corner hard enough to make me dizzy for a second. The street ahead was clear, the sirens all behind us or a ways off to the side. As I gunned Demon's engines, I snuck a peek at the gridmap. Seattle's traffic grid, superimposed in bright yellow lines over a detailed map of the city, flickered to ghostly life across the top of Demon's windshield. The bright orange dot that was Demon showed up just four city blocks shy of a main drag. If I could get to it, I could take it to the I-5 and on home.

I wasn't counting on the three patrol cars that suddenly shot into the intersection half a block ahead. They'd been runnin' silent, caught me off guard. Smart bastards, the Star. Don't underestimate 'em if you want to live long. So now I had a choice to make-fast. Stop and surrender, whip around or run backwards straight into the patrol I could hear closin' in behind us, floor it and hope Demon could crash through the blockade without takin' too much damage to keep goin' or find me an alley to fly down in the next couple seconds.

Luck was with me. A patch of empty dark appeared in the solid wall of plascrete to my right. I aimed Demon's nose toward it and floored the gas. I was gonna pay for this later on-I could feel the burn in my calves from too much redlinin', like a distance runner who starts out too fast and burns up his reserves-but so long as I got us out of immediate trouble, I'd deal with the consequences.

The dark hole was an alleyway, dirty and stinkin' and narrow. We took the turn a hair too sharply; my right arm caught fire as poor Demon scraped a fender against the side of a crumblin' factory. Now she'd need a new paint job along with everything else. Rubber screeched on pavement as the patrol cars caught on to the change of plan; I knew we didn't have much time to get ahead of 'em. So I poured on more power and ignored the charley horses that were formin' in both legs. The only thing that mattered was getting to the end of the alley before the Star did and then findin' us a fast route outta there.

We'da made it clean if the fraggin' hole in the road hadn't slowed us down. A real axle-breaker-big as an oil drum and so deep I swear it went halfway to China. Hurt like hell when we hit it. Think of the worst sprained ankle you ever had, then multiply that by ten, and you've got some idea. Luck was still with us, though; the internal sensors told me Demon's axles were still intact. So I floored it and we shot toward the alley's far end.

And fraggin' near collided with a patrol car. Just one-lucky again!-and a glancing blow at that; otherwise I wouldn't be tellin' this story. Demon's right front fender got up close and personal with the front left fender of the Starmobile. Spun the cop car all the way around; when a Leyland-Rover argues with an Americar, even the razzed-up kind the Star drives around in, the Rover almost always wins. Hell of an impact, though. Felt like I'd smacked my head into a brick wall. What with all the other hell I'd been through on this joyride, the crash nearly blacked me out. But I hung on to consciousness by my fingernails, stopped Demon's fishtailin' on the slick pavement and managed to turn us in the right direction. Then I burned rubber and sent us flyin' down the road.

The Star followed, of course. For awhile. Demon and I dodged and wove and bumped across sidewalks, even crashed through a coupla flimsy fences, before we finally lost the last cop car. My head felt like a thousand little guys were beatin' on it with hammers, my feet were freezin' from the icy asphalt under Demon's baldin' tires, and every wild turn made me want to throw up-but I gritted my teeth and kept goin'. That's how you survive in this biz. Me and Demon didn't stop until I pulled her up in front of a clinic near the safehouse, where we knew a street doc who'd patch Zipdrive up quick. And me, too. Wild rides take their toll on a rigger's meat even if lead and fireballs don't. I had a lump on my head the size of an egg from where I'd hit Demon's roof bouncin' outta the pothole, and I was so fraggin' tired that my hands were shakin' on the steering wheel. I popped the doors so Punch could take Zipdrive out, then jacked out and just sat for a moment. Just sat and breathed, and thought about how nice it was to be able to do that.

After a little while I got out of the van. Almost fell over when I tried to stand up; just for a second, my brain had some trouble with the difference between wheels and feet. Like gettin' your land legs back after you've been on the water a time. Then I started walkin' and that was even worse. Every muscle was screamin' at me, and my calves were threatenin' to go on permanent strike. I told 'em to save it and staggered on. The pain was a good thing in one way; it kept me from thinkin' too much about the size of Demon's repair bill. Not that I grudged her any of it, mind-but like I said before, cred was tight. And after this hose-up, I knew we wouldn't get so much as a plugged nuyen from the Johnson unless we took it.

Which we did. Well, Rocker and Punch did. Rocker don't like bein' double-crossed, and Punch… well, sometimes he just likes to break stuff. Specially the heads of people fool enough to rip him off. My share of the "insurance payment" was enough to fix Demon up, mostly-though she'll have to wait awhile for another stealth paint job. Those things cost.

Hell-maybe I'll just send the bill to the Star.