Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption Read online

  Bailey went back into his office. By now, Shivers would have found his friends lying in an ungainly pile of ugly muscle. He’d find them quite unwakeable for at least three hours, by which time Bailey planned to be long gone. If this night had taught him anything, it was that he should do the rest of his work on this project from a more secure location.

  He turned on his desktop screen for a quick look-see. The last he’d seen, Bannickburn’s team had been approaching Bluebeard’s ferry. Good old Bluebeard, Bailey thought. There was someone who, ever since the unpleasantness many years ago, had showed an extraordinary amount of discipline and loyalty. It was good to see someone learn from experience.

  The tracking map showed that Bannickburn’s team had made good progress and were approaching the Tir Tairngire border. That should, keep them amused, he thought.

  He wondered what they were doing in the van. Not much, he guessed. The euphoria of setting out on the journey had probably faded during the slow journey on Bluebeard’s boat. Now they’d be impatient for action to start—until the really heavy fire came down, and they’d start wishing for inaction and boredom again.

  He hoped Kross would call in soon. He felt better knowing what was going on, even though the whole run was pretty much out of his control. Getting regular reports made him feel like he was in control, and sometimes that was about as good as the real thing.

  But if he was going to take a call from Kross, he needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere Shivers couldn’t find him. He shut down his office terminal and scurried out the door.

  After Bailey exited the building, he passed Shivers, who had found his lackeys. Bailey was inordinately pleased with the way Shivers’ normally smooth red locks were hanging in his face, heavy with sweat, as Shivers tried to drag his motionless friends into the back of a pickup truck.

  Bailey smiled and waved as he walked by. It’s always nice, he thought, when you can salvage a bad evening with a wonderful ending.

  21

  The grass really was greener on the other side of the fence. The trees were taller, the blossoms brighter, and the water of the Columbia River, Bannickburn thought, was cleaner and cooler than any other river in the world.

  The people across the border were, techically, his people. His elven brothers. He was supposed to have a kinship with them, or something. But they creeped him out—at least, the ones in the Tirs did. Their high degree of comfort with overly strong monarchs, their preference for their green meadows over the beauty of urban grime, their distance from the rest of the world all combined to make him want to stay well away from the Tirs whenever possible. So naturally, fate conspired to send him to this one.

  Portland would be okay, though. It was a city. It was pretty open to foreign traffic. It had races in it besides elves. Sure, it had martial law, but that was the least that could be expected in a Tir.

  The checkpoint before the bridge over the Columbia was, as expected, nearly empty of traffic at this time of the morning. As Spindle’s van sped toward the gate, Bannickburn could see a number of lights starting to flash, and he could dimly hear the alarm bells that accompanied them. Their cargo—plenty of weapons. Jackie’s deck, and a few other goodies—had already been detected. Hopefully, in a few moments none of that would matter.

  Bannickburn had moved back to the front passenger seat, so the first thing the surprisingly amiable border guard saw when the van’s window rolled down was two elves smiling at him.

  “Welcome to Portland,” the guard said. “I’m afraid our sensors have detected numerous restricted materials in your vehicle. I’m going to have to ask you to pull over to the right, to that small gray building. You’ll be given further instructions there.”

  Pulling over to the inspection station would mean the discovery and likely confiscation of a number of precious goods. Peeling away from the gate without submitting to the inspection would mean an immediate hail of bullets flying into the van, along with a wreck-vehicle spell or two from the security mages. Neither option was attractive, which left them option number three.

  Spindle smiled, which would have been quite charming, had Tir Tairngire border guards been susceptible to that sort of thing.

  “That’s not necessary,” she said. She waved a cred-stick in front of the guard’s face. “Just give this a quick scan, would you?”

  The guard looked at the stick for five seconds before taking it and disappearing back into his little kiosk. Verification took barely longer than the time he’d spent staring at the item.

  The upper half of the guard reappeared as he leaned out of the kiosk, credstick in his outstretched hand. “Thank you very much, ma’am,” he said. “Proceed on your way.”

  Spindle nodded gratefully and drove ahead.

  The credstick identified the bearer as a corporate security officer for Mustaffah Cartage, a small shipping business that moved precious cargo in heavily armored vehicles across Portland. Mustaffah Cartage was a small gem in the vast corporate treasury held by Kate Mustaf-fah, and that was what helped Spindle’s van get through security—the Mustaffah name carried a lot of weight in Portland.

  The best thing about the ID, which Jackie had provided, was that it was entirely legitimate. Jackie had picked it up two years ago—compensation from an elf who was running out of resources to pay Jackie for certain favors, but who couldn’t yet afford to do without her services. Though of limited use—Mustaffah Cartage only operated in Portland, so using the ID anyplace else got you exactly nothing—Jackie had held onto the ID, knowing that getting a free pass into Portland would prove useful sometime. Bannickburn didn’t have to turn around to know that she had a cocky grin on her face. There were few things she liked better than gliding past tight security.

  Once through the gate, they drove south past the airport. As far as Bannickburn could tell, Spindle was the only living driver on the highway. Plenty of drone vans trundled here and there, moving between the airport and the numerous warehouses and industrial buildings that surrounded it, but that was about all the traffic. They passed windowless building after windowless building, and before long came to the exit they wanted, which put them right in the middle of the area that held plenty of goods but few people.

  As they drove by the massive warehouses, Bannickburn could almost feel the magic energy protecting the merchandise inside. Thankfully, the bottle of water wasn’t behind any of those doors, so he wouldn’t have to figure out how to counter those particular spells.

  Spindle led them east a little to the Maywood Park neighborhood. With the nearby highway, airport, and Columbia River, Maywood Park held more industry and warehouses than anything else. It had a lonely feel, making it the ideal place for people like Bannickburn and his team.

  On the surface, the neighborhood looked harmless— block after block of sturdy brick buildings. The occasional windows were intact. He saw a few signs of neglect—tree roots buckling the sidewalks, ivy covering entire buildings, roofs that lost shingles every time the wind blew—but these were minor. It actually seemed far too nice, and Bannickburn began to think the stories he’d heard about the place were inaccurate. Or maybe they were in the wrong spot.

  Spindle pulled her van to the side of the road and, with a sigh, turned it off.

  “Ready for a break?” Bannickburn asked.

  “No,” she said flatly. “This is what I do. If I’m not doing this . . . well, it’s what I’m comfortable doing.”

  “So it’s a shame to have to stop,” Bannickburn said. “Believe me, I understand.”

  He turned to the other four members of the team, all of whom were asleep. He thought about waking them all with a quick yell, but the only ones he needed at the moment were Kross and Cayman. He shook Kross, Kross shook Cayman, and the three of them walked out of the van.

  “Keep an eye on things here,” he said to Spindle as he walked away.

  “Always,” she said, and she stayed plugged into her van.

  It was nice having Kross and Cayman walk behind him
, and Bannickburn felt quite powerful. Kross was about the same height as Bannickburn, but carried an extra twenty-five kilos of muscle, while Cayman had at least an extra quarter meter of height. Having these two in tow made it clear that Bannickburn was someone to be reckoned with. Sure, once upon a time he hadn’t needed any support to appear powerful or intimidating, but now he’d take what he could get.

  They walked up to a yellow brick apartment building, one of the area’s few residences. Up close, more wear was evident—the mortar between the bricks had disintegrated in many places, leaving gaping holes. An old buzzer system had once existed near the door, but the cover had been pulled off, most of the buttons removed, and what few names were displayed probably belonged to people who hadn’t lived in the building for more than a decade. The whole system was made obsolete by the fact that the dented metal door wouldn’t close enough to lock.

  Bannickburn shoved the door. It opened with a screech and a scrape. He walked through, and suddenly understood what he’d heard about the people who now lived in Maywood Park. The smell of urine—some fresh, some stale—assaulted his nose. A long fluorescent light bulb swung uneasily in its fixture, buzzing as it flickered on and off. Layer upon layer of graffiti covered any trace of the hall’s original paint. Farther down the hallway, an obscenely large rat—a creature that could have held its own against a bull terrier—scurried into the middle of the corridor, stopped, gave them a good long stare, then casually continued on its way. Should it get hungry, it had a full complement of insects to choose from on the building’s walls and floors.

  Kross stepped on one of the resident beetles. The loud crunch echoed down the hall. His foot made an audible slurp as he removed it from the floor. Bannickburn cringed.

  “Where are we supposed to be going?” he asked.

  Cayman checked a piece of paper he was carrying— before he fell asleep in the van, he had regaled Bannickburn with a long discourse on the untrustworthiness of cyberdecks and all related electronic devices. “Second floor,” he said. “Number 216.”

  “Stairs better not be wooden,” Kross grunted. “They’ll have been eaten by termites or burned for heat long ago, and we’ll have to fly up.”

  “We’ll just grab the elf and throw him up,” Cayman said with a grin, and both of the bigger men smiled. Bannickburn, who wasn’t used to being the smallest in a group, only managed a thin grin.

  Thankfully, the stairs were concrete, and though badly crumbled, they were still climbable. The three men ascended to the second floor.

  Apartment 216 was the third door on their right. Ban-nickburn approached the door, then thought better of it and stepped back.

  “I guess we shouldn’t knock first,” he said.

  “Got that right,” Cayman said. “You want to do the honors?” he asked Kross.

  The ork responded by cocking his fist and slamming it into the door. The hinges held, but the wood shredded with a brittle crunch and fell in front of them. Kross and Cayman charged ahead, reducing the door to narrow, dry slats. Kross went right. Cayman left, while Bannickburn strolled in after them.

  The apartment, such as it was, was a charred mess. Ragged, burned curtains dangled in front of open windows, dropping new pieces of black fabric with each gust of wind. There was no furniture.

  “Here! Here!” Cayman yelled. Kross sprinted behind Bannickburn, and the elf turned to follow.

  At the end of a short corridor was a small room, somewhat less damaged than the front room. The bare, water-stained mattress on the floor indicated that this was a bedroom. A woman with knobby knees poking out from under a long T-shirt huddled in a corner, apparently trying to back away from Cayman while clawing her eyes out.

  “She’s on something,” Cayman said.

  “You don't say,” Bannickburn replied.

  “Should I get her hands off her eyes?”

  “Only if she needs to be able to see to tell us what we need.”

  “What are we supposed to get out of her, anyway? Coherence isn’t her strong suit at the moment.”

  “We need to find out where Spargoyle is. Hold on.” Bannickburn walked up to the bony woman and reached out toward her shoulder. She screamed, and he jerked his hand back.

  “Where’s Spargoyle?” he asked.

  The woman gibbered, but didn’t make any sound that seemed like language.

  “Where’s Spargoyle?” he asked again.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” Kross asked.

  “Do you have any other ideas?” Bannickburn shot back.

  Kross thought. “Did we bring any useful pharmaceuticals?”

  Bannickburn had, in fact, brought several useful drugs, but he hadn’t revealed their existence to anyone else on the team. He was saving them for an emergency, and, at the moment, this didn’t qualify.

  He reached out his hand once more, but made sure not to come close enough to the woman to set her off again. “Come here,” he said. “Come here, let me help you.” The woman whimpered a little, but her gaze was fixed on Bannickburn’s hand. “Come on,” he said.

  She reached out her own hand, tentative and shaking. Bannickburn remained steady.

  She touched his hand, her grip cold and unsteady. Bannickburn gently closed his hand around hers, lifted her to her feet and led her forward a step or two. Then another. Finally, she was on the floor just in front of the mattress.

  “Sit down,” he said. She whimpered again, but listened. She sat.

  Bannickburn squatted next to her. “Okay. You’re doing fine. I just need to ask you one thing. Where’s Spargoyle?”

  The woman screamed again, the force of her voice sending Bannickburn stumbling backward. She leaped to her feet, turned, and ran to the corner of the room, bumping her head on the wall. Then she dropped into a crouch and huddled, trembling, in the corner.

  For the first time, they saw the back of the shirt. Someone had written on it with a firm black marker. It

  said SPARGOYLE, 315 COMET TRAIL.

  “I think we can find him at 315 Comet Trail,” Bannickburn said.

  “I guess Spargoyle wanted her to be able to find him,” Kross said. “For some reason.”

  “Yeah,” Cayman said as the three of them made their way out. “Too bad she put the shirt on backwards.”

  At least fifty people were in the room, but very few of them were actually there. Lights flashed, heavy bass shook the wooden floor, and the recorded voice of an ork howled unintelligible lyrics at a deafening volume, but none of it was really necessary. From narcotics to BTL chips to just plain alcohol, all the patrons of Club Morningstar had found something to erase their consciousness for a few hours. People lolled in chairs, staring at the walls, or at their hands, or at nothing at all.

  They had traveled to the address on the T-shirt, only to find an old woman who was unable to speak without shouting. She had spent a good ten minutes running through an extensive list of unprintable insults before she calmed down long enough for them to tell her why they were there. Once they mentioned Spargoyle’s name, she came up with an entirely new batch of scathing abuse, then told them he was probably at Club Morningstar. As soon as she said this, Bannickburn and his team slowly backed away from the woman and got the hell out of there.

  And now they’d found the club. The good news was, if Spargoyle was here, he’d be easy to find, and would be in no condition to attempt to run away from them. The bad news was, if he was here, he most likely wouldn’t be ready to speak coherently for an hour or two.

  Bannickburn, still with Cayman and Kross in tow, approached the only reasonably sober person in the place—the bartender.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “I need to ask you something,” Bannickburn said, screaming to be heard over the noise of thrash metal.

  The bartender’s glare hardened. “What’ll it be?” he repeated.

  Bannickburn sighed. Oh well, he thought. He’d add the cost of the drinks to the mission’s expenses. “Guinness. A pint for e
ach of us.” Cayman and Kross smiled at Bannickburn’s unexpected generosity and quickly dropped onto some bar stools. The seats wobbled precariously beneath them.

  The bartender pulled the pints like an amateur, barely generating any froth on top. Bannickburn rolled his eyes, but was comforted by the fact that a nonfoamy Guinness was still a Guinness.

  He took a long sip to assure the bartender he wasn’t ordering drinks frivolously, then got back to his real reason for being there.

  “Is Spargoyle here tonight?” he yelled.

  “Who?” the bartender replied.

  “Spargoyle!” Bannickburn screamed. He could feel his vocal cords shredding.

  The bartender scratched his temple with his index finger, leaving a smudge of dirt on his head. Bannickburn looked distastefully at his ale, hoping the drink hadn’t come in direct contact with any part of the bartender.

  “He’s been here tonight,” the bartender said. “I seen him. But I don’t know if he’s still around.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” He grabbed his pint, and motioned for the other two to follow him.

  They wandered the club, looking for someone who fit the loose description they had of Spargoyle. It came from the old lady who had sent them to the club, something she screamed at them as they were backing away from her.

  “Ugly son of a slitch!” she said. “Looks just like his name! Horned bastard.” That was all they had to go on, but Bannickburn figured the “horned” part of the description would be enough.

  It was. He was on the club’s small second floor, slumped against a railing overlooking the main floor. As the old lady had said, he looked just like his name. Bannickburn guessed he had started life as a dwarf, but had gone through innumerable surgeries and procedures to get the look he wore today. His skin was stone gray (dermal sheath, most likely), he had two short horns protruding from his thick brow, and the black shorts he was wearing exposed thick, powerful gray legs. He should be squatting on a ledge somewhere, Bannickburn thought.