Shadowrun, page 11
Even Royal was chipping in, for once. Their fearful leader had a honking big Fabrique Nationale MAG-5 burping short bursts toward a small knot of Dawgz. His bike was at a full stop and both his feet were down; the machinegun’s tripod was bolted onto his bike—technically integrated, technically mounted, technically allowed, because technically right was Royal’s favorite flavor of right—and he was just laughing it up and playing triggerman. His elf-perfect self was all wrapped up beneath glowing guard magics, plus he had a pair of rippling-eel water spirits swirling protectively around him.
Coward. Mongoose wanted to spit just looking at him.
She twisted her wrist and throttled up to chase the Derily-beaters, instead—the triplets wouldn’t get all the fun!—but then the lights nearby changed. The reflections from the rain-shining street, from glass windows, from mirror-polished chrome, all of them began to distort, to shift, to flash in all the wrong colors.
Red and blue. Cops.
“Cops!”
The fight sputtered to a stop. She checked her heads-up display, wired to her helmet. Traffic disruptions were posted by Knight Errant, mandatory stops or emergency blockades here, here, here. Everywhere. They’d responded in force to tonight’s fight, and were following protocol. Cordon at range, secure the flow of traffic, then tighten the noose.
Mongoose’s goggle-eyes scanned left and right, helmet-implanted microphone sharing her warning with her Quick Sliver brothers and sisters. A handful of blue-white streaks were scattering already in real life, hesitantly facing all different ways as friendly blue arrows on her heads-up screen, but going in all the wrong directions. Scattering wouldn’t help at this point. They had to focus. Had to work together. Had to punch through.
Royal was already nowhere to be seen. Mongoose’ tactical-tracker, her little AR-display that overlaid chipped Quick Sliver bikes with her regular CityNav GPS system, showed him gone. Gone-gone. Off-the-map-gone. Only-possibly-gone-that-far-because-of-magic-gone. Some chief. Some president. Some king.
Mongoose’s sword circled overhead, catching the light, flashing as a thumb-twitch sent her too-bright headlights flickering, strobing, back and forth from high-beam to regular, desperately calling for their attention—and for the remaining Dawgz, too, hell, it was crooks against cops, now, the eternal Us against Them—and obedience. Then she pointed, and led. She could’ve outpaced any of them in a straight-up race, and every Sliver there knew it, but she didn’t throttle up to top speed. She wasn’t running away, she was leading a charge.
Mongoose had to get them all rolling, rolling with a purpose, before the cops got settled in. She’d targeted the last roadblock to form. Knight Errant had protocols to follow. They were methodically deploying drones, calling in back-up, waving away the late evening’s few civilians, radioing back in to headquarters for more orders, coordinating with other roadblock squadrons, worrying about property rights and insurance rates and overtime. Only a few interceptor Knights could even give chase, according to the rules, if the line broke.
Quick Sliver plans were more simple. Point your bike in the right direction. Throttle up. Believe in your gang. Charge.
A wedge of blue-armored bikers—with a few Harley-riders in black leather mixed in—smashed against the half-formed Knight Errant line, weapons reaching out, crashing and slashing and wheelie-ing on by. Blue-white streaks, swerving and juking, left laser trails as they blithely ignored the glowing yellow caution tape barricade. In her AR CityNav display, a flood of friendly blue Quick Sliver arrows blinked right past the angry red icons of the Knight Errant line, and a few Road Dawg icons—still tagged red, but not really hostile for the next few blocks—were dragged along in their wake, cheering lawless defiance.
No, wait.
She sideslipped out of the running pack’s way, let Tempest lead most of the Slivers past her as she pivoted, bug-eyed helmet scanning the storm at her back.
There’d been too many red icons in their midst. One wasn’t a Road Dawg at all. He was some psycho fragger Knight, an interceptor cop laying about with a tonfa, left and right and left again, smashing up their racing wedge from the inside. Nothing about him was Knight-Errant-friendly, which wasn’t really very friendly to begin with; his oversized engine wasn’t regulation eco-friendly, his bike’s armor wasn’t regulation fuel-efficiency-friendly, his grim snarl wasn’t regulation public-friendly.
It was crazy, but there he was. Bold as her, customized Blitzen maybe just as powerful as her bike, plating just as strong, weapon just as quick. Derily went down with his skull split wide open, blue-dyed hair staining a terrible crimson, blue-painted bike leaving a comet-trail of sparks as it slewed to a stop over him. Rikki and Tikki got kicked and clubbed, weaving unsteadily, cursing. Tavi got rammed into their midst by a non-regulation boot, and the heap of all three of them slammed into a parked car.
Mongoose revved and roared and raced, streaking back the way she’d just come. He was too dangerous, too good, for anyone but her.
The Knight’s bike skidded sidelong right into her path, between her and the triplets. He—their champion, their errant knight with a club—was a wall of armored fairings and armored flesh, brown skin rippling over augmented muscles, head to toe wreathed in an aurora of flashing red and blue lights. One hand was comfortable and easy with his combat tonfa, the other just as at home on handlebars. A neatly-trimmed goatee showed beneath his helmet, and she saw just a hint of a smile as he sized her up.
She went for him anyway.
That damned stick wasn’t normal polymer or wood; sparks flew as he parried, then he jabbed at her, hard. She lurched her Kaburaya to one side as he blasted her in the ribs, feeling like she and her bike had just bounced off him, careening away. He didn’t chase, didn’t re-align to joust with her, just spun—back wheel howling, acrid smoke filling the air—to keep his bulky, armored bike and bulky, armored self between her and her Slivers, keeping his prizes. He was disciplined. Playing goalie.
Behind him and his combat-rigged BMW Blitzen, she saw the triplets. Groaning in pain, Rikki waved her away. Tikki saw his busted arm and threw up. Tavi spread-eagled himself face down, a swarm of Knights rolling up on them, finally catching up to their psycho lead rider.
Mongoose leveled her blade at the Knight interceptor—Stavros, his badge read, and she carved the name into her mind—and then her engine screamed as she fled. It was a straightaway, and not an engine on the streets could beat her.
She didn’t go straight back to The Garage. The old mechanic’s shop wasn’t far, but Mongoose drove every which way but home. She scanned her heads-up map for any other stragglers she could pick up, looked out for Knight Errant on her tail, checked the skies for drones peeping at her. She played it safe, for the safety of the gang.
She also made some calls, pulled on the strings every Barrens-brat was born with, called in favors from all up and down the block. She had a name. She had friends, and those friends had friends. What else could they get her?
By the time she made it back to The Garage, Royal, being Ghost-damned Royal, was already talking.
He paced when he talked. When she’d been a kid, Mongoose’d watched some hacked trid-show about how to give speeches. Famous dead guys and their talking tricks, right? That’s how she’d eventually recognized all the signs in Royal. The way he paced to draw the eye, waved his arms, used his hands, changed his volume, spoke in cadence.
“—I was against this fight all along. ‘We don’t want to be hasty,’ I said, and ‘We need a better read on that neighborhood.’ But no. She tricked you all.” Royal flung his hands skyward, like a madcap, exaggerated, shrug, a gesture of confusion, of disgust. “She told us to be bold, and brave, and to meet them on the street, take their offer, accept their challenge. And look at what it got us. No, look at what it lost us.”
“Where’s Derily? Where are the triplets? I don’t see Rikki, do you? Tikki? Tavi? How many of you did she leave behind?!”
“Look around, brothers and sisters, look at how few of us made it back.” Here Royal waved, voice rising again, loud as a Baptist preacher on a Sunday morning tridshow.
“Look at what that bitch cost us.”
And then he pointed, his electric-blue eyes blazing behind that accusatory finger. They all turned, every Sliver in the place, a sea of blue combat leathers, dark glowers, ugly faces, all following his gesture, all looking her way.
She felt pinned in place, and wondered—like she always did—if it was magic. If he’d cast some spell to make her falter, to bend her will, to bend all their wills. He always bragged about his big, flashy storm-magic. Maybe he had subtler stuff, too.
“Frag you,” she snarled, instead of showing any of her fear. “All of you.”
“I’m the reason most of you made it out, and you know it.” She tore off her helmet instead of hiding behind it. Let them fawn over his elf-flawless features, sure, but let them look over the scars that marred her bronzed skin, let them remember just who they were daring to blame. She was the best of them, and they all knew it. Tempest looked guilty, and so did Sliptrip, maybe Torque. But not enough of them.
“And who was the first of us to vanish when the cops showed up, huh, Royal? You all know that, too.”
“It certainly wasn’t Derily,” Royal said, voice going low and sad, but eyes still bright and smug behind the sorrow. “Not Rikki, or Tikki, or Tavi. He died, and all three of them got pinched from right under your nose. I saw that.”
The bastard. Maybe he hadn’t fled right away, after all, maybe he’d just gone stealth-mode, hidden behind some spell or spirit. Or, hell, maybe he had hotfooted out, but then sent a spirit back to spy. She hated not knowing. She hated not trusting him. She hated how much she had trusted him, once.
“I saw somethin’, too.” She tossed her head, dreads flying just like all her helmet’s lucky feathers. “Saw a name. Stavros. Saw custom work on his bike, an old Blitzen. Only one Knight Errant precinct runs those combat rigs and has a decent motor pool to do work like his. Got an address. Know where they’ve got the trips, so we can—”
“You can.”
She didn’t counter-correct him, playing the blame game right back. He was leader. She was just top blade, hottest hand, sharpest wheels, Vice President.
“You know where they are, you go get them.” Royal gave a magnanimous smile, elf-white teeth, elf-perfect face, looking like a saint that had just granted her her fondest wish instead of deciding to pass a death sentence.
“And take care of this Stavros, too.”
The Slivers glanced at one another at that. Going after a cop at home? Spilling Knight Errant blood off the streets? That was suicide, no bones about it. You fight a cop when he’s working the beat, that’s bad enough. You go looking for one? You remind them the streets don’t go to sleep just ’cause they’re off-shift? That’s it. Game over.
That kind of heat could kill the whole gang.
Royal knew. Royal wanted her to refuse. Royal wanted Mongoose to challenge him. He wanted to goad her into it. He wanted to let a spirit whiz him ahead and win a race, wanted to drown her with some oceanic elemental, wanted to smash her down with a bolt of lightning even her Kaburaya couldn’t outpace, maybe even—but she doubted it—wanted to test that mageblade of his against her sword.
They’d written the gang’s rules together, the two of them, taking breaks from sweating, panting, heaving against one another, years ago. They’d planned it. She’d be the muscle and the gasoline, he’d be the electric fire and the charm, playing figurehead. With her chrome and his magic, they’d plant a seed, watch the gang grow. Duels solved problems, and the loser was killed or banished. Wiz, right? High stakes, make it easy for them to stay on top. Only there was no way to change leadership without a duel. No way to change the rules without a duel. No way to refuse an order without a duel.
And against Royal, no way to win a duel without mojo.
She didn’t rise to it, just like she hadn’t all the times before.
“Fine,” she said, instead, hefting her helmet, sounding confident. “Stavros won’t be a problem.”
They all gaped. Tempest and Torque exchanged a glance. Even Royal blinked, surprised.
Mongoose latched her helmet back on, war face soundly in place to hide her fear. She throttled up, let the Yamaha scream in a one-eighty, then burned out of there. Straight-line speed. Not an engine on the streets could beat her.
The problem was that she couldn’t run from this.
She had to face it, head on.
“Monica Guzman,” the rumble-deep bass voice said, accompanied by two other sounds: the heavy footsteps of boots on parking garage concrete, and a high-impact polymer club against an armored gauntlet. He circled her in the dark.
“Mongoose,” she corrected, tossing her head. She’d left her bike outside, left her helmet and blade mag-clamped to it. She didn’t know which absence made her feel more naked, more trapped.
“I know.” Stavros still circled her, likely still deciding whether or not to crack her skull open. “I asked around.”
She tried not to think about those big hands ‘asking’ the triplets anything.
“Lieutenant in the Quick Slivers go-ga—”
“Co-founder,” she corrected, “and Vice President.”
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t flash his teeth in a smile, just grunted, but he also didn’t take a swing. She took that as progress. His club glinted in the dark, glossier than his armor.
“So what is it you want, Ms. Vice President? You must want something. You must be downright desperate, in fact, coming here.”
It was true. Breaking into a Knight Errant parking garage was a risky move.
“A trade.” She lifted her chin, trying to sound confident, trying to sound certain.
“What can you give me, girlie, that I could possibly want?”
Besides another arrest, she imagined him saying, as his even footsteps continued circling her. Besides another go-ganger corpse. Besides another notch on my grip.
“A guy named Royal. Co-founder.” She twisted her head just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye, just enough to peek at him from beneath her dreads. “And President.”
“Playing Judas, girl?”
“He’s no savior.” She hardened her voice. “And you’re no saint.”
She imagined she heard another ghost of a chuckle from him. He kept pacing, kept slapping that baton against his palm. She pressed. “I asked around, too. I know what an old Blitzen costs to keep on wheels, and I know KE don’t pay it. I know how much Dikote costs, and reflex wires, and bootleg muscles. I know you’ve got to bribe the poolie to keep your BMW running. I know who pays your bills.”
The baton stopped slapping his armored palm, somewhere behind her. She wondered if he was raising it to brain her.
“And I know where Royal got his sword,” she said, more hurriedly than she wanted, just in case he was about to murder her. Did she hear a scuff from behind her? A boot scraping pavement, a swing interrupted?
“I know about the Merlyn he murdered for it.”
His armored shadow slid around her side, all dark skin and smooth, impossible grace. His cyberoptics glowed faintly as he stared into her eyes. She didn’t see anything warm behind them. He was a walking weapon. He wasn’t really in Knight Errant’s arsenal, though. He worked for someone else.
“You tell your bosses—” She held his gaze, her dark eyes on his inhuman ones. “—I can get you the man who killed Venus.”
Just saying the name almost made her feel guilty. Almost. Two years earlier, she and Royal had a plan, but needed that seed to plant. Mongoose had killed the bodyguards. Royal had killed the wizard herself. They’d use her briefcase of Bliss and Tempo to jump-start the gang, he’d held onto her powerful mageblade focus to help himself lead it.
Venus, with the button nose and the scar on her cheek that had throbbed while Royal strangled her, had been in the Order of Merlyn. The Order of Merlyn was mobbed up, magical muscle for the Finnigans and the rest of Seattle’s Mafia. Venus had thought that made her safe. That’s why Royal had picked her.
“I’ve got a deal I want to make. We all win. We kill Royal for the family, you drag what’s left of him to Knight Errant. The Slivers help you go after other gangs, keep up your rep in the Knights. You arrest our competition, help us hold some turf. And we go in with the family, me and the Slivers. You get the credit for recruiting us.”
“Call your boss. You help me beat Royal, you let my boys go.” She held out a leather-gloved hand for him to shake. “And you get the Finnigans the sharpest little go-gang in town.”
Royal, being Royal, was talking when she got back. He probably had spirits circling just to warn him when she was close, just to give him enough warm-up time to try and turn the gang against her right before she parked.
“—and here she is, now. I still don’t see them, do you? No Rikki. No Tikki. No Tavi.” Royal just kept talking as she swung a leg over, and strode right up to him.
“No blood on her, no holes in her armor. What did you even do while you were gone? Did you even—”
He kept working his mouth right up until she slapped him in it, armored riding glove adding heft.
“What ar—”
Then a backhand for good measure, splitting his lip and staggering him.
“You ca—”
Another forehand, smiling, enjoying herself now.
He reached for his mageblade, and instead of a backhanded slap she just rested her hand on her own sword’s grip. His blade was fancier, sure. Both were gently curved, both well-balanced. Hers, though, just had mundane mono-edges, while his was etched with orichalcum, the grip glowed electric-blue like his eyes, runes danced along the length of the blade as he got the first few centimeters out. His was nicer, yes, infinitely more expensive.
But hers was hers, and every motherfragger in The Garage knew she was faster with it.
She just clicked at the polymer tsuba with her thumb, got ready for a fast-draw if he pushed it. Hell, maybe she’d get lucky and she could just gut him instead of what was supposed to happen next.
