Shadowrun: Steel Rain Part 16

The run is already mapped. Splendiferousis easy Code Green and they ride a secured line into the cerebral cortex of the host. They pause at the center of a gigantic virtual warehouse where a thousand Chinese cook icons hurl blurring streams of databytes in the form of knives, cleavers, animal parts, bottles and cans and boxes across the length of the warehouse floor.

At 02:13:51:20:17:46, a green uniformed Rent-A-Cop icon steps onto the warehouse floor. "I am not recognizing your program icon," the Rent-A-Cop says. "Please to be identifying yourself with great alacrity."

Negative alert, says Rad238.

Sleazing, NodeBoy says.

Their icon resembles just another ap.r.o.ned Chinese cook. They lift one iconic hand to the Rent-A-Cop. They gesture. "We're not the cook you're looking for."

"You are not the cook for which I am presently looking," the Rent-A-Cop says.

"No need for a system alert."

"I am perceiving no require for an alert."

"Go about your business."

"You will be going about your business, please. As I also will be doing."

At 02:13:51:20:18:14, a port in the warehouse floor slides open and out steps a green-suited comptroller icon who begins interrogating the Chinese cooks for accounting data.

Maneuvering, says SmoKe.

They dive through the port. They join the river of data plunging through the dataline to the Code Orange host operated by Paragon Provisions International. They break through the Paragon virtual sh.e.l.l in the native Orange-5 host supporting the virtual machine and ride a datarush of transfers through TRW CredCorp's Red-7 mainframe to the black depths of their primary target.

Freese detected online, says Rad238. Are we ready?

Never readier, says SmoKe. Cloaking. Armor on.

Initializing combat progs, says NodeBoy.

The danger ahead is great, but freedom is worth the risk. And nuyen will buy it.

26.

It's just past 2 a.m. when the optical workstation console in the touch-sensitive top of the gleaming onyx desk begins beeping. Gordon Ito turns in his high-backed chair from the broad window overlooking the Hudson to face the multiscreen display risen out of the desktop. He sips his Brazilian coffee and takes a drag from his Platinum Select. The display screens give him a view direct into the Fuchi telecommunications grid.

View number one shows a vast cavern formed by the gleaming black cliffs of a pair of immense datastores, soaring up infinitely high into the electron night. Between the two cliffs burn the cobalt blue beams of a trio of data-streams, each looking as hot as the interior of a sun. Bucky Freese and his team of deckers are already onscreen in flashing blue hard hats and blue-striped vests. They construct a temporary node around one of the datastreams using program icons like opaque black panels. They then step through the walls of the node and onto the verge of a virtual highway a thousand lanes wide and streaming in both direction with iconic sedans that blur with impossible speed, representing transfers between financial accounts.

View number two shows much the same scenes, but comes via Gordon's special programming group, lead by Alonzo Ukita.

Ukita and his group are all employees of Fuchi Americas.

Freese and his team are not. They are employed by a Fuchi subsidiary. In the event that they are discovered or jumped by Fuchi Internal Security, Gordon will disavow knowledge of their activities. Ukita's people will provide covering doc.u.mentation indicating that they and Gordon have only just discovered Freese's treasonous activities and were preparing to take Freese down. Any evidence to the contrary has of course been destroyed. Any indication that such evidence might ever have existed has also been eliminated.

Freese and his team do not themselves have a bright future, all things considered.

Freese and his deckers, now resembling traffic cops, begin directing iconic sedans down a newly constructed exit ramp. The ramp briefly winks, Dataline To Secret Pacific Rim Accounts. The counter in the exit ramp's pavement keeps a running tally of the nuyen being diverted. The total swiftly climbs.

And, abruptly, things start happening.

The horizon grows dark. A cloud of blackness comes rushing up the near-infinite length of the virtual highway. The cloud resolves into a teeming swarm of iconic birds, a blurring river of bats hurtling around Freese and his traffic cop deckers and a horde of flashing pterodactyls, which seize iconic sedans on the exit ramp with tremendous claws and vanish into the distance.

Freese and his deckers seem immobilized.

Ukita's team steps onto the verge of the exit ramp looking like heavily armored metrocops. One fires a grappling hook winking Trace or Die! at a flashing pterodactyl and soars into the air as the cord between them snaps tight. The cord is instantly severed and the decker enveloped in a cloud of bats.

The other deckers fire Ripper, Tar Pit, black IC. A rivulet of bats crashes into the pavement. A trio of pterodactyls drop their loot and spiral to the ground. Meanwhile, a few million nuyen in financial transactions flies toward the horizon.

In another moment, it's over. If the battle had taken place in any other node on the Fuchi grid, every last host would be on full alert by now and Freese and his group would be blown.

Gordon snuffs his Platinum Select and sits back in his chair and ponders. Someone's f.u.c.king with his organization, and it has to be more than just one decker acting alone, because one decker acting alone doesn't frag Fuchi mainframes twice in a row, even with help from inside. So it's either a corp or a gov with a drek-hot programming group and a building full of computer power.

And either way they're going down.

Down, down to the ground.

27.

"Proceed directly ahead," says the uniformed guard. "Follow the directions of officers to the next checkpoint."

The Toyota Elite rolls ahead, through the checkpoint, down the ramp, into the depths of the cavernous parking facility located beneath Fuchi Plaza. Rows of parked vehicles extend away to left and right, gleaming beneath stark white light. Uniformed security officers stand watch at every intersection of aisles. Each one motions the Elite onward, like the green arrows winking from panels set into the garage floor.

The Elite rolls onto an elevator. Two guards guide the car to a halt. Heavy doors to the rear shunt closed and the elevator briefly rises, then the doors directly ahead slide open and the Elite rolls briefly ahead.

A formal entranceway comes up on the right, a small area brightly lit, carpeted in red, adorned with plants and an artificial waterfall and more uniformed guards.

Machiko pushes her door and stands up beside the Elite. Ryokai emerges beside her. They are faced by three male norms, all in suits. Two have the air of fighters, perhaps physical adepts. The third politely bows, and says, "Please come with me."

They proceed through the glittery transparex doors of the entranceway to the elevators at the rear of a lobby area composed of polished marble. But for several uniformed guards, the lobby is deserted. The elevator ride to the fiftieth floor is swift. They soon come to a room like a small private lounge.

Sectional sofas line three walls; a semi-circular bar bulges out from the fourth. Tables between the sofa sections are all fitted with deluxe telecoms. A tridscreen two meters broad fills the wall over the bar. The atmosphere is informal, but not without significance. The large floor-to-ceiling window at one end of the room provides a view of Manhattan's Lower East Side, often described as "The Pit." Perhaps the most violent, uncontrolled district anywhere on the island. Machiko wonders if the choice of views is deliberate. If this is intended as a message to her.

The Fuchi escorts exit. Three minutes pa.s.s. Then a lone elf enters, looking like the perfect corporate jack. His head is shorn almost completely bald. A silver datajack gleams from his left temple. His suit is black and cut to make the body beneath it sleek and anonymous. His face seems incapable of expression, like the face of a computer terminal.

"My name is Donelson," he says. "I'm Mr. Ito's deputy. A prior engagement prevents Mr. Ito from meeting with you now. I'm cleared for anything you wish to discuss."

Machiko considers whether Ito's absence is intended as a deliberate insult, or merely another reflection of the Fuchi perspective on the relative status of Nagato Combine. Could Gordon Ito regard Nagato Combine as nothing more than an unusually disciplined gang, such as might arise from The Pit? Could he be sitting somewhere in the Fuchi towers, observing all on security monitors, putting words in Donelson's mouth via implanted headware?

"I would like to discuss one of your agents," Machiko says.

"That's do-able," Donelson replies. "What agent?"

Machiko hands Donelson a small digipic of the man. "His operational name is 'scudder.' We discovered him among a terrorist group called White Octagon. He identified himself as an agent of the S.A."

"That would be a violation of operations protocols."

"Indeed, he was reluctant to speak of such matters. Doubtless, he recognized my primary interest and confined the majority of his remarks to what he knew of White Octagon."

"What's your interest?"

"That is my question for you," Machiko says. "What is the Special Administration's interest in White Octagon?"

"n.o.body's saying we have an interest."

"Then why is your agent in this group?"

"n.o.body's saying he's our agent."

"You deny it?"

"Why do you care? Why ask about it? Are you proposing to create a relationship between Fuchi and Nagato Corp that would be founded on the free exchange of intelligence information?"

A very interesting question. Machiko is immediately torn by thoughts of how such a relationship might benefit Nagato Combine, and how dangerous it might eventually prove to be. "For the moment," Machiko says, "I am merely proposing to release this man, called Scudder, unharmed. This I will do in exchange for certain information."

"You're holding captive a man you believe to be an agent of the Special Administration?"

"Until such time as I have confirmed his story, I can imagine no reason why I should release him. Why I should not subject him to the most rigorous interrogation."

"Have you subjected him to such an interrogation?"

"I have questioned him, certainly."

"What information do you want in exchange for his release?"

"I want to know why the Special Administration is interested in White Octagon. I want to know why you have planted an agent in this group. I want to know what you hope to achieve."

"Again, I'll ask if you're proposing to create a proprietary relationship for the exchange of intelligence."

"I would require clear and compelling evidence that any such exchange relationship would be mutual."

"How mutual?"

"Explain your interest in White Octagon and I will give you your agent. I would consider that mutual."

Donelson seems to consider the point for some moments; then, he says, "We're interested in the work being conducted by your Neurocomp advanced technology subsidiary."

That is rather puzzling. However, Machiko's response is preordained. "Any work being conducted by a Nagato Corp division or subsidiary is of a proprietary nature and therefore cannot be the subject of an exchange of intelligence."

"We work in a dynamic environment," Donelson says. "Friends have to be flexible."

"I have not yet subjected your agent to interrogation by a mage. I have come here offering to return him to you. Am I not being flexible?"

"A friend might offer this as a demonstration of good will."

"Indeed, you are correct," Machiko says. "But we are not yet friends nor allies. I come here seeking some indication that we are not in fact enemies."

Donelson smiles. "The Special Administration has no need for another enemy. We have enough enemies. We would prefer to regard Nagato Combine as a possible new friend or ally. We can be very helpful to those who are helpful to us."

Clever talk. "In ancient writings," Machiko says, "there is a story about a man who admired dragons. So deep was his admiration that his clothes and the furnishings of his home were all adorned with dragon designs. One day a dragon appeared at this man's window and he died of fright. It is said that here was a man who talked great talk of large and powerful creatures, yet when such a creature actually appeared the man was revealed as a coward and his great words as meaning nothing."

Donelson's smile disappears. "That scans like a challenge," he says. "You should keep in mind where you are and who you're talking to. I don't indulge in idle buzz."

"Then show how helpful you may be to a potential ally." Donelson appears to consider. Perhaps he merely listens to instructions relayed over an implanted commlink. "The Special Administration," he says, "has been investigating rumors of an impending action against Fuchi corporate holdings here in New York. We believe that the Alamos 20K may be planning such action. We are therefore investigating a number of groups related to the Alamos 20K."

"Such as the White Octagon."

"Yes."

"Why do you believe that Alamos 20K is involved?" Donelson says nothing for several moments. He merely waits, watching Machiko, his expression blank and unreadable. Finally, he says, "We have indications that one or more leading members of Alamos 20K may have recently come to the New York megaplex."

"Such as a member known as Gamma."

Again, Donelson pauses. "The Special Administration would be interested in any information you may have about this individual called Gamma."

Machiko crosses her arms. She spends several moments merely waiting, gazing at Donelson, striving to keep her expression blank and unreadable. Finally, she says, "I would be interested in any information a potential ally might obtain about Gamma, terrorist groups operating in the plex, and the possible intentions of such groups. In exchange, I would be willing to divulge such information as might come to my attention, in this venue."

Donelson asks, "You have info about Gamma?"

"It is conceivable that I may at some point take this person into custody."

"We would be very interested in questioning Gamma ourselves."

Perhaps this can be arranged. For the moment, Donelson has provided little but words, words indicating that Gamma is indeed somewhere in the megaplex, and more words indicating that the Special Administration would rather deal as allies than as enemies. Has Donelson spoken only lies? Once back at their Toyota Elite limo, Machiko looks to Ryokai, who says, "Donelson was cyber-equipped. I'm guessing headware."

"Did he speak truthfully?"

"As he knows the truth? I think so." Ryokai frowns, and adds, "The idea of an alliance with Fuchi makes me uneasy."

"As it should."

"The Special Administration is known for loyalty only to itself."

Machiko nods agreement. "Yet, there is a thought that came to my mind, something Sukayo-san said."

"There is safety in the shadows of giants?"