My ancient fingers almost fumbled enough to lose it but I managed to get it wrapped around us enough to save some heat. The kid didn't stop shivering, but the shakes weren't as bad.
My knee and ankle were both killing me, my body felt like I'd been pulled backwards through a knothole, and what I wanted more than anything else was a big glass of single malt.
But I'd pulled it off. Got the kid, kept the data.
Just needed to drift across Lake Washington and wait for AIS to pick us up.
The kid had fallen asleep against my chest, still shivering a little. But I had done it. Succeeded. Won.
That had seemed a lot more important when I was younger.
I got bored a lot of times, hiding out all these years, wishing there were some op I could join and feel a bit of that old excitement. Now, though, I just wanted to crawl back into my hole. I was way too old to be doing this stuff and whatever thrill it had had for me as a kid, it just scared me now.
Realized that I hadn't even asked the elf who'd hired him. Well, I never expected getting any name besides 'Johnson' anyway, even assuming the rohypnol would have made him talk.
I hate making mistakes. John Wayne didn't make stupid ones like that.
Could have made some use of the bonus from that, too, but I would have to settle for what I was going to collect when I turned the kid over.
All in all, though, I love it when a plan comes together.
Wish there were more of us still alive who remembered where that line came from. Wetwork By Stephen Dedman
Stephen Dedman is the author of the novels Shadowrun: A Fistful of Data; The Art of Arrow Cutting; Shadows Bite and Foreign Bodies, and more than 100 short stories published in an eclectic variety of magazines and anthologies. An avid GM, he has also written for GURPS and V amp;V, and has been shadowrunning since 1990. For more info, check out www.stephendedman.com.
The rain thundered down, as loud on the roof and sidewalks as hail and so thick that George White couldn't see the other side of Western Avenue through the ballistic glass panel in his door. He sighed, and wondered whether he should close early: Seattlites were accustomed to rain, of course, but he couldn't imagine anybody venturing out in weather like this to buy army surplus camping gear, or anything else he sold. He yawned, then started channel-hopping on the sports networks in the hope of finding either a good urban brawl game or a swimsuit special, until the door opened and someone hurried in. White looked up, his fat face bland as usual, and glanced at the customer. Unsurprisingly, he was wearing a long raincoat with a waterproof hood that hid most of his face.
A chiphead, thought White, or some other addict, with something to fence. And if he's desperate enough to come out in this weather, he really needs the nuyen fast. 'Help you?' he asked cheerfully.
'I hope so,' said the man, looking around the shop while he fiddled with the drawstring on his hood. 'You sell guns and ammo, right?'
'I sell them, yes,' said White warily as he grabbed the taser he kept under the counter. 'If you have the right ID.'
The man walked towards him. 'I need some special stuff,' he said quietly. 'Mil-spec, hard to get. I heard you might have what I'm after. Didn't you used to be a supply sergeant?'
'Yeah, in the reserves. Do I know you from there? I'm not that good with faces.' He looked the man up and down, re-assessing him. He seemed watchful, but not nervous, like someone who was used to guard duty. And he had weird parallel scars just above the top of his collar, as though he'd been clawed by something very nasty. No, not scars, White realized: rents. Open wounds, except that they weren't bleeding.
'No, it was just something I heard around the… traps.'
White nodded slightly. 'What do you want?'
'Caseless ammo for an M24A3 carbine. 6mm Gyrojet Plus. Any sort of missile launcher that works underwater. And other stuff-ration bars, inflatable boat, that sort of thing.'
The merchant blinked. He had a long-standing policy of never asking a client why he wanted a particular item, but something about the man made him uneasy. 'Going fishing?' he asked, his voice dry.
'You can't be too careful nowadays,' came the reply. 'Sea leeches, sea drakes, saltwater serpents, unicorn fish, torpedo sharks, kraken… it pays to be prepared.'
The merchant relaxed. 'I have a Spike in stock, heat-seeker, dual-purpose high explosive warhead, reduced backblast. I can get others, if you need more, but it'll take a few days. Same with the caseless. The gyrojet… sorry. I've never had one in here.'
The man smiled. 'Wrong,' he said, pulling a revolver out of his coat before White could react. White barely had time to recognize the gun as a Taurus Multi-6 before the man shot him through the eye. • • •
Professor Magnusson stifled a yawn as he read through another freshman paper on magical theory. This one was a comparison of Paracelsus's description of undina in the Philosophia magna and Guazzo's classification of female water demons from the Compendium Maleficarum with the studies of water elementals and sea spirits by 21st century magicians. The writer, a pre-law student, had not the faintest spark of magical ability, but Magnusson suspected that if he didn't learn to summarize more concisely, he would be able to send judges and juries to sleep as effectively as if he'd used a stunball.
He was wondering how to put this politely-or at least, politely enough that he wouldn't be sued-when he heard a knock on the door. 'It's open,' he said, not at all unhappy at the interruption. He smiled, and closed the computer file as he saw Kenda Reyes walk in. Though her black hair, dark eyes and bronzed complexion revealed her Sioux ancestry, her presence always seemed to brighten any room. Maybe it was her powerful aura leaking through into the normal visual spectrum-or maybe, he admitted to himself, it's just my imagination. No matter. 'Hi,' he said, leaning back in his chair.
'Hi,' she replied, less cheerfully.
'Problems?'
'I was wondering if you had any news on my funding application.'
Magnusson's smile faded slightly. 'I'm afraid not, but unofficially, I don't think they're going to grant you another extension. The dean says the faculty simply doesn't have the money.'
'We don't need much.'
'There are also other people who want to use the submarine. But I think the real problem is the liability. Some of the creatures you're looking at can be dangerous, and if anything goes wrong, it's not going to be easy getting someone out there to help you.'
'Or cheap.'
'True,' he admitted. 'Are you still trying for corporate sponsorship?'
Reyes shook her head. 'Gaeatronics are the only ones who've shown any interest, and they have a backlog of applications. It could take years. If we can't survey the islands all year round, how are we going to find out about migratory species that visit them?'
Her professor shrugged. He hated to disappoint Reyes, a Sea totem shaman of considerable talent-but he also knew that the paranormal ecology of the San Juan Islands, her current obsession, wasn't considered a particularly high priority by either the School of Magic or the College of Ocean and Fishery Sciences. It didn't help that their respective deans loathed each other, and had pet research projects of their own. 'Paul's out there now, isn't he?'
'Yes, on Battleship Island. We can do without the sub if we have to, but we'd still need money for food.'
'I'll do what I can. Unfortunately, they don't allow influence or truth spells at faculty meetings.'
Reyes smiled. 'Thanks. I'll call Paul and let him know.' • • •
Marcus Shawn looked down at the body behind the counter, hoping to assense some clue that would lead back to the fence's murder. 'George White, also known as Picket,' intoned the homicide detective. 'Small time fence, bought and sold a lot of guns. No great loss: he screwed up a lot of cases for us.'
'How?' Shawn asked her, without much interest.
'One gun he bought and sold was used in three murders by three different owners. You can imagine how hard that made getting a conviction for any of them. And, of course, even when we persuaded Picket that it was in his interest to talk, his recordkeeping wasn't what you'd call helpful.'
Shawn, one of Knight Errant's most gifted forensic mages, looked around the store. 'So not much chance of telling what's been taken?'
