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  SHADOWRUN : 10

  NIGHT'S PAWN

  Tom Dowd

  PROLOGUE

  SEATTLE, 2048

  Awakening n. Refers to the return of overt magical activity to the modern world and the reemergence of races and creatures previously believed mythical, such as elves, dwarfs, orks, trolls, dragons, and other beings. This return is marked as occurring on December 24, 2011, though some evidence of the incipient return of magic exists prior to that date.

  —Worldwide WordWatch, 2053 edition

  The line outside Dante's Inferno was long, mean, and as alien to him as the people who stood in it. He'd been to Seattle before, even to this very club, but the sights never failed to astonish. Certainly, he understood dressing for style, for effect, but physical extremism repelled him. Home, they ran the shadows as hard as any, and their colors showed it. There they wore the clothes that suited them, that made their work and their lives easier and simpler. Every policlub had its own look, its special expression, but none of them would ever have considered overt physical mutilation as a symbol of superiority. Customize and internalize, yes. Flaunt it, however, and you were asking for trouble.

  In America, especially in this town, it seemed to him that you weren't anybody unless people noticed you walking down the street. For him, though, a man whose life was the streets, to be noticed was almost certain death. A friend once joked that the American affinity for chrome came from some racial memory of century-old automobiles. Here, now, in Seattle, he believed it.

  How little subtlety they have, he thought, passing a line of impatient people all wanting to get in to the same place at the same time. A place where they were obviously not wanted. To them, the attempt to penetrate the inner sanctum of Dante's Inferno was as valuable as actually dancing on its glass floors. In Berlin, he thought, people wouldn't play the fool standing in line just to be rejected. They'd simply find another club .

  Reaching the door, he stifled a laugh. Dwarfed by the size of the huge troll working the door was a gander-girl looking slick in black and red trying to talk her way inside. A waste of breath. They didn't know her and she wouldn't get in.

  With a nod to the troll, he brushed past, earning a curse from the gander-girl. But her City Speak was so mangled and uttered with such guttural inexperience that he stopped and turned to look at her. She was shorter than he, but jacked up to nearly his height by a pair of gleaming black razor-spike boots. Her hair, its color shifting from iridescent blue to white and back again, made a perfect frame for her face. She was beautiful by the standards of either side of the Atlantic if one ignored the cold look in her eyes. She glared at him, waiting for an equally venomous response, but he resisted. Far too much was at stake tonight to humor her.

  He gave her a deadpan look and was about to turn and be gone when she surprised him by cursing again, this time in perfect City Speak. He smiled in amusement. Her first curse had been sudden, impulsive, and fractured. The second time was perfect, even down to the crosstalk inflection. She was chip-trained, no question, but trained only. If she'd actually been wearing and accessing a language chip, her first curse would have come out like a veteran's.

  He couldn't help but smile even more broadly as he gave her a closer inspection. The clothes were right: all the proper straps and chains tight or loose as fashion demanded. Quad-colored earrings dangled from her ears, glittering and dancing in the lights of the street and the neon of the club's façade. Her iris tint was near-phosphorescent, designed to pull another's eyes to them even in the darkest club. She was absolutely perfect, the ultimate gander-girl. And therein lay the failure in her appearance. But it was that which so intrigued him.

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

  The girl apparently overheard, starting slightly at the words. When he motioned for her to take the lead, she glanced once at the troll, then turned away quickly from his sudden, feral grin. As she stepped forward, he guided her with a gentle pressure of his fingertips at the small of her back. Once again she gave herself away. Her jacket was real denim, not the cheaper synthetic look-alike that a "real" gander-girl would wear.

  They continued down and into the uppermost level of the Inferno. Though he hated the place, he'd gradually become a semi-regular out of sheer habit whenever he was in town. There were certain things that always brought him back. He'd first met Dante in London, where he'd performed the club owner some services that had ensured him first-class service in the club thereafter. Information could be a priceless commodity.

  The band had apparently just taken the upper stage. A staccato riff from the lead ten-string triggered the sync-systems, bathing every level of the club in pulsing light and liquid noise. Shag metal was apparently the latest rage in Seattle, making his desire to go transcontinental all the stronger. It was enough that he might die tonight, but the idea that his death might be to the accompaniment of a pitiful rendition of "Bangin' the Duke" was too much.

  He wanted to believe that his people were not like these nighttrippers thrashing around him. He wanted to believe that back home things were different, that his people had some memory of, and some honor for, the glory of their cultural past. He wanted to believe that he was superior to these Americans with their all-consuming lust for the new. But he knew that Europe's magnificent past had all but vanished from mind, as though it had never been. Technology had blurred the differences between nations, chipped languages had weakened the borders, and the Euro-Wars had utterly destroyed them.

  The Restoration might be physically reviving Europe's lands and people, he thought, but it's destroying us culturally. The driving force behind it were the Euro-corps pursuing the grail of unrestricted growth. If the corps could erase national boundaries, it would mean no more import-export tariffs. It would mean the availability of vast pools of cheap labor. It would also mean death to three thousand years of dynamic social expression. Radical politics and a return to nationalism were the only hope for rescuing individualism, the uniqueness of the continent's many peoples. The Neo-Europe District of the global village must not come to pass.

  The policlubs had been born out of the urgency many felt for another kind of restoration. They, too, wanted to rebuild Europe, even if it meant a return to more contentious times. Theirs would not be a Europe homogenized for mass consumption. For better or worse, it would be Europa Dividuus. These groups alone kept alive the flame of political activism and individual expression. Without the policlub movement, Europe would soon become a corporate Disney verse.

  The various policlubs did not, of course, agree on the means or even the ends, but was that not as it should be? On the surface, the Restoration might appear to be proceeding apace. Behind the scenes, however, Europe was at war—in the streets, in the datafaxes, in the hearts and minds of those alive enough to listen. Europe would not become another Manhattan, not even another Seattle. He'd come to make sure of that.

  He blinked, realizing suddenly that he'd been lost in thought, staring at the pulsing, thrashing crowd for longer than he'd have liked. The girl was still there, a few steps away. He tugged gently on her arm, and she turned to eye him quizzically. "Watch the dancers," he said, leaning against a light-filled pole. Relaxing his body and mind, he focused his attention on the pulsing lights of the lasers, letting their silent rhythm take him.

  A moment passed.

  Then a longer one.

  His vision shifted beyond the confines of his body and he was free, viewing the worlds as few others could. He saw the ghostly auras of men and women dancing madly, locked in the mundane world and oblivious to him. He ran his gaze quickly over this level. There was some minor magical ac
tivity in the faint auras of cheap trinkets hawked on street corners, but no bright blossoming or dazzling oscillations to warrant further interest.

  The iridescent bodies of the dancers on the glass floors at each of the levels below him blocked much of his immediate view, so he released his astral form. Dropping quickly down all the levels, he came to where he could contemplate his destination. He saw the cool green power of the mystical shield-wall enclosing it, but no sign of the person he was supposed to meet. The shield prevented him from knowing whether she was already within its protection. The only way to penetrate its mystery was to walk through, physically, unhindered. The shield was nearly impenetrable to the pure astral body, but to break through it was something neither he, nor most other humans, could do unassisted.

  His body jerked once as his wandering spirit returned. He'd discovered his mystical ability very late in life, just a little more than ten years ago, and was still not totally used to it. The girl was looking at him, as though to ask what was next. Taking her hand, he led her away.

  They moved down-ramp a few levels. Halfway to the bottom, he paused at the sight of a posturing corporate cowboy. Boldly emblazoned across the back of the man's jacket was the Saeder-Krupp corporate logo showing the dragon and the German flag. The coincidence gave him pause, but he shook off the thought that the woman he was to meet had already completed her mission. It wasn't, after all, so unusual to see people wearing the dragon-logo design. Besides, he was counting on the fact that the woman would know very little of his motives, or his knowledge, at this point. She was both crafty and powerful, but he'd been careful to keep her guessing. "Know your enemy and then use that knowledge against him," was a motto of her following. Well, he hoped that all she knew about him was what he wanted her to know. Regrettably, he knew even less about her.

  Reaching the sixth level, he and the girl went to the nearest bar and signaled for the barkeep. Feeling the girl move gently against him, he turned and looked into her eyes. Her gaze dipped and then rose. Behind the slightly glowing tint, her eyes were bright blue. "My name's Ka-ryn," she said, "with a 'y'."

  He smiled. "No it's not."

  She blinked twice as the bartender appeared, wiping the counter in front of them. Leaning across with a touch of hesitancy, the elf barman pitched his voice so that no one else could hear. "Greetings, my friend," he said in clear, unaccented Russian. "How are things?"

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

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

  "A man?"

  The dark-haired elf shrugged. "Figure of speech. I was only given a name."

  The man nodded. "So ka. The usual for me and a Firedrake for my friend." He pulled a credstick from its wrist-sheath, but the elf waved it away.

  Now the elf spoke in English as he moved down the bar. "All taken care of, chummer," he said. "The Inferno still owes you. And if we don't, then it's on me for old times." The man returned the credstick to its sheath. Old times, indeed. He chuckled and wondered just how much the elf hated him, or feared him.

  Just then the crowd roared as a glare of hard, colorless light cut across the level. He'd seen the act before and figured the lead singer must have just triggered a small bit of nightlight and was gleefully trying to shove it down someone's throat. Ah, art.

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

  This time he didn't smile. "You still aren't sure." Their drinks arrived as he spoke, making her gape in surprise at the Firedrake. He took his Blind Reaper in one gulp and touched her arm.

  "That's your favorite drink." She looked up at him, eyes still wide. "And your name isn't Karyn, either with or without a 'y't And you're not from anywhere near here." Fear swam in her eyes now. "But no matter," he told her. "Tonight you're with me."

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

  As she slowly opened her hand, a jumble of brilliant red silk unfolded, first forming a flower, and then falling open in a drape that covered her hand. He gathered it up and tied the flare of color around her throat. She touched it and stared at him, an odd glistening in her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

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

  She'd felt the silk appear in her hand, but still wasn't sure if he'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, he'd let her.

  He brushed her cheek and then her hair with the fingers of one hand, then moved away without looking back. If his business went well, he'd be alive enough afterward to need to disappear somewhere, pronto. And if he'd read the girl right, she was the bored daughter of some equally bored ultrasilk-suit type. Weary of the macro-glass scene, she'd become enraptured by the rhythm and color of the streets, but remained blind to its workings. Afraid of being rejected for her real identity, she'd gandered herself up the way they did it in the trids. 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 curve of a DNA spiral. Deeper and deeper into corruption he walked as each level echoed the names and places of Dante's nightmare: the author's and the owner's. He ignored the screams and the other sounds, preparing himself as he descended.

  Below the lowest dance floor, down a short, winding ramp, was Hell. No sign marked its location. One had to know it was there. Flanking its entrance were a pair of scantily clad, androgynous figures who watched every step of his approach with a near-feverish interest. He stuck his hands into his pockets, and the twins twitched. He flashed them a grin. "Shavan is waiting for me?"

  The one on the left nodded, and the one on the right spoke. "Indeed," it said in a tone of menace. "You are expected." The bodies of the twins were perfect, scar-less, some say the best ever made. He doubted that, but they were the ideal 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 magical eavesdropping was possible: the astral shield prevented that. No way in through the higher planes, either, which was what Shavan would be counting on.

  Hell's designers had been kind enough to include a sizable foyer just within the outer doors to allow one a moment of preparation. Unfortunately, there were few spells he could raise and sustain that she wouldn't detect. Keeping her calm until just the right moment would be the key to walking out of this meet alive. He checked his gear once, then dropped down into a lotus position on the floor. The rhythm of his pulse released him, and he gave the shield-lattice and his surroundings a quick astral once-over. Everything was quiet, but it was still early. His senses returned to his body and he prepared himself.

  Shavan was an enigma. The leader of a 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 he'd ever heard was that she was of Nordic descent, but in this day and age only a DNA test could tell for sure. She was a powerful sorceress, an adept perhaps, and had relied on that to conceal her trip to Seattle. She needed to speak to someone, and that individual was not about to come to her. What she hadn't counted on was that someone else knew how to look better than she knew how to hide.

  Shavan had been surprised that he'd known she was in Seattle, let alone that he knew where to find her. She'd believed that her business was deeply buried in the shadows. That was her first mistake. Her second was believing that what he offered her wa
s sincere.

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

  He stepped through the inner doors to find her waiting, exactly according to the plan. He was late.

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

  The sight of her was so different from what he'd expected that he scanned the room to hide his surprise. In startling contrast to the woman, the room and its accessories were pure white. 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 wad of bright red silk and let it drift gently onto a sofa.

  The odds against him walking out of here in one piece suddenly fell radically. His mind raced through the possibilities of how she could have gotten the silk, and he rejected every one just as quickly. There was no way she could have gotten it and still beaten him here. Regardless, she'd used the ploy to good purpose: his momentum was broken. With his options already halved, he was still at least five minutes away from playing his real cards. Until then, a bluff would have to do.

  He picked up the silk and tied it around his throat. "Like it?" he asked, keeping his voice as level as he could manage.

  She seemed amused. "Like what?"

  "The silk."

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

  "One hundred percent."

  "Only the best for Alexander."

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

  The mention of the name Steadman gave Shavan such a start that he caught her surprise even as she mastered it. She already knew that Steadman was dead. He sensed the fear and anger that washed over her before she regained her calm. For someone of her power, Shavan was proving far too easy to read.