Shadowrun: Shadowplay Part 28

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, tried the balance. It was a heavy, c.u.mbersome thing, with an integral bipod mounted under the barrel. It had to weigh at least thirteen kilos-a ma.s.sive weight to pack around, and useless for snap-shots. Thank the spirits. . . .

There was no digital display showing the number of rounds remaining, but a mechanical indicator on the side of the magazine told him the gun had four shots left. At first he thought the nightsight was dead, broken in the fall to the alley. But then he found the small toggle, easily within reach of his right thumb. He flicked it, and the scope lit up. Through it, the alley was bright as day, just a little grainy, like the view through a cheap portacam.

Falcon dropped the now-useless machine pistol. Hefted the Barret again.

He jogged to the end of the alley, stopped. Used the nightsight to scan the darkness. No figures lurking in the shadows, concealed by the darkness. He rounded the corner, headed down to the main street. Crouched low again and looked around the corner.

All the streetlights were dead-maybe shot out. The only light came from muzzle flares and the spray of tracers. A scene right out of some wartime nightmare. He used the nightsight again.

Even with electronically enhanced vision, Falcon couldn't make much sense of what was going down. It looked like a major pitched battle, with shooters hunkered down behind parked cars and firing from positions on rooftops or from windows. There were at least a halfdozen bodies sprawled in the street, dead or so badly chewed they weren't moving. Not shadowrunners, he didn't think. The bodies and the live combatants Falcon could see had a kind of regimented sameness to them, like they'd come out of an identical mold. Corporate street ops? Megacorp soldiers? It seemed likely. He guessed that at least three factions were involved, yet he couldn't be sure. Maybe somebody trained in small-unit tactics could understand what he was seeing, but Falcon was only a fragging gutterpunk ganger, for frag's sake.

The situation seemed static. Everybody had some kind of cover. n.o.body was advancing, n.o.body retreating. Probably those who were dead had been the brave or the foolhardy ones, trying for some kind of territorial advantage. Or maybe they'd just gotten caught out in the open when the drek hit the fan. He settled the Barret against his shoulder, steadied it against the corner of the building as best he could. Found a small thumbwheel, turned it. Saw the scene jump into close-up as the variable scope changed its magnification. Saw a glowing set of cross hairs superimpose themselves over the image. He settled the cross hairs onto the back of a street op hunkered down behind a car on the same side of the street as the tavern. Remembered how this gun had blown a flaming hole right through the armored torso of the street samurai Benbo. Started to tighten down on the trigger, antic.i.p.ating the sniper rifle's brutal recoil. . . .

Then loosened off on his finger. Who the h.e.l.l do I geek? Falcon asked himself. Four shots remaining. There were at least five times that number of prospective targets. So what good would it do if he dropped four of them? After the first shot, at least some of the shooters would turn their own gunsights on him. One shot, maybe two if I'm lucky. Then I go down. . . .

He backed off a little, maximizing the cover provided by the corner of the building. What should he do?

Falcon couldn't stop the fight, didn't know if he wanted to. And he probably couldn't even affect the outcome in any meaningful way. If I splatter four out of twenty gunners, so what?

What was his purpose here anyway? To protect Sly and Mary long enough for the decker to finish what she had to do.

So that was his answer. He decreased the scope's magnification a little, increasing its field of view. Then he changed his point of aim to the front door of The Buffalo Jump. Settled his finger on the trigger. At the moment, everyone was pinned down. But if anybody broke cover, made a dash for that door, then he'd fire. The first person to head for the tavern dies. Falcon told himself. And the second, and the third and fourth, if he could stay alive long enough. Again, it might not make any difference in the grand scheme of things, in the final accounting. But it was something.

He waited.

The firefight raged on. Bullets slammed into parked cars, smashed masonry from buildings. A grenade launcher coughed; a car blossomed into a fireball, pouring black smoke into the lightening sky. Three figures that Falcon could see were hit, collapsing into the road.

Where were the fragging cops? he wondered angrily. Don't they give a frag that there are armies blowing up the city?

But these are megacorp armies, he reminded himself. Couldn't some megacorp just as easily have bought itself the police department? Frag, it happened in Seattle often enough-a large donation to the Lone Star Retired Officers Fund, or whatever fragging cover story suited the moment. The Barret was getting really heavy, the muscles in his forearms starting to quiver with the strain of holding it steady. He considered flipping down the bipod, then discarded the idea as cutting down his mobility too much. The gunfire rose to a crescendo.

And stopped.

Just like that.

One moment the air was filled with high-velocity ordnance, the paling of dawn lit, strobe-like, by muzzle flashes and the occasional explosion. The next moment, utter silence.

What the frag was going down?

Falcon could still see heavily armed and armored figures crouching down under cover, weapons at the ready. But n.o.body was firing, n.o.body was advancing or retreating. They just seemed to be waiting. Waiting for what?

For more than a minute, the street looked like a freeze-frame from some trideo. The only movement he could see was one mauled corp soldier, dragging herself agonizingly toward cover, leaving behind a smeared trail of blood. Another minute.

Then the movement began. Retreat, not advance. Through the nightsight he could see figures melting away into the darkness, leaving their sniper nests, leaving their over-watch positions. Slinking away into alleys, disappearing into buildings. A couple of figures-holding their empty hands away from their bodies-darted into the street to drag their dead and wounded out of the killing zone. n.o.body cut them down.

What the flying frag was happening?

Within five minutes, the street was empty, the silence complete.

"It's over."

Falcon spun at the voice from behind him. Tried to swing the c.u.mbersome Barret around.

A large hand grabbed the barrel, immobilizing the gun as totally as if it had been locked into a vice. Falcon looked up into the face of a heavily armored street op. Looked into the muzzle of an SMG pointing directly between his eyes. Every muscle in his body spasmed, as if muscular tension could stop the bullets from smas.h.i.+ng his skull to fragments.

But the corp soldier didn't fire. He just looked calmly down at Falcon. "It's over," the man said again. Then he released the rifle barrel, turned and tore away in an inhumanly fast sprint.

Falcon watched him, letting the Barret's barrel sagging down to the ground. Realizing he'd been holding his breath, he let the air out of his lungs in a long hiss.

"It's over," he repeated. But what, exactly? And why?

Well, it was d.a.m.n sure he wasn't going to figure that out squatting here.

He slung the Barret's strap over his shoulder and jogged back to the alley, to the rear door of the tavern. Went into the storeroom, rapped on the wall where he thought the concealed door was.

After a few moments he heard a click, and the door swung back. He stepped into the back room.

Mary was there. And so was Sly, who was longer jacked into her cyberdeck. She was sitting on the couch now, exhaustion written in every line of her body, a tired smile on her face.

He unslung the rifle, tossed it onto a chair. "What the frag is going on?" he asked of anybody who'd care to give him an answer.

33.

0700 hours, November 16, 2053 Sly smiled at the young ganger-or should I think of him as a shaman now? she wondered. He looked almost as drained as she felt.

"It's over," she told him.

"What's over, for frag's sake?" he demanded."What just happened? It's like . . ."

He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's like the fragging director yelled 'Cut!' and all the fragging actors went home."

She nodded. "I did it."

"Did what?"

"I uploaded the fiber-optic data to the Corporate Court bulletin board system," she explained. "It's on the system now, where every corp in the world can read it." She let herself relish the relief. "We're out from under."

"So why'd they stop shooting?" Falcon wanted to know.

"Don't you see?" she asked him. "Every corp's got the information. There's no percentage in coming after us, and there's no percentage in"-she chuckled- "wasting each other's a.s.sets. And you know that corps don't do anything if there isn't a percentage in it for them."

"So they stopped fighting. ..."

"Because there was nothing to be gained by fighting anymore," she finished for him. "They called back their armies, all their a.s.sets." She shook her head. "I don't like the corps, but there's something to be said for the rational way they handle things."

Falcon shook his head slowly. She could see him trying to understand. Then his frown softened, and he smiled. "It's over?" he asked, almost plaintively.

"It's over."

They went back to the motel-the Plains Rest. Why not? As far as Sly could tell, n.o.body had figured that was their doss-And why should it matter now anyway? It was over! And what the h.e.l.l, they needed somewhere to rest up. Somewhere to decide where they'd go from here.

Falcon had driven the Callaway, with Mary following along behind on her borrowed bike. Then again, maybe the bike was hers now. Its previous owner-the bartender-was dead. Falcon had insisted on taking along the ma.s.sive sniper rifle-he hadn't told her how he'd come to acquire it, and she hadn't asked. They'd soon enough have plenty of time for stories. Sly had worried about the kid carrying such an obvious piece of ordnance openly to the motel room, but Mary had promised to handle it. Sly didn't know exactly how Mary had done it, but even though the ganger had brushed past a cleaning woman with the rifle slung over his shoulder, there'd been no outcry, not even the slightest hint of recognition that he carried a gun. I should find out more about this magic drek. Sly thought dryly. Now Falcon was lying on the bed, the weapon beside him as though he didn't want it too far out of reach. Once they were settled down-each with a gla.s.s of synthetic scotch from the bottle Mary had provided as her contribution to the celebration-Sly told them about her run through the Matrix. Was surprised to find herself shaking when she described the fight with the golem-cla.s.s black ice. There were a lot of nightmares there, she realized, waiting to come and get her. She knew it would be a while before she'd be able to sleep without the memories returning to frighten her awake in a sweat-soaked bed.

When she'd finished. Falcon shook his head slowly. "So that's it?" he asked doubtfully. "No comebacks? No loose ends? n.o.body coming to geek us?"

She smiled. "The corps are satisfied . . . if that's the right word," she explained. "The playing field's level again. Everyone's got the results of Yamatetsu's research. n.o.body's got any kind of edge. There's nothing to go to war for."

"The corp war's over?" he pressed.

"It's over," Sly rea.s.sured him. "It's like I said, there's no percentage in it anymore. Everything's back to business as usual." She chuckled. "No doubt everyone's scrabbling to develop what they've got, to advance the technology. But they're all starting from the same point, so no one's got an advantage." She shrugged. "Probably the Concord of Zurich-Orbital's back in force-with some changes-and the Corporate Court's back on top of things."

"The Sioux government's cleaning house," Mary put in. "That's what I heard when I picked up the bottle. Closing down the OMI, and-"

Without warning, the door blew off its hinges. As Sly's ears rang with the overpressure from the explosion, she saw a figure standing in the doorway. A ma.s.sive figure, bulky with armor, a large helmet covering its head. The transparent face-s.h.i.+eld was down, but through the clear macroplast she could clearly see the face.

Knife-Edge.

Sly clawed for her revolver. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Mary fling herself into the dubious shelter of one of the beds. Falcon didn't dive for cover. He reached for the sniper rifle.

Knife-Edge raised his a.s.sault rifle, triggering a short, controlled burst. Falcon screamed as the bullets tore into him, the impact sending him rolling off the bed. Still clutching his rifle, he slumped to the floor face-down, motionless in a spreading pool of blood.

Sly brought up her pistol, squeezed off two rounds. Saw them slam harmlessly into Knife-Edge's heavy armor.

"Drek-eating slitch!" he yelled. "You fragged everything up!" He swung the a.s.sault rifle around.

She stared down the muzzle helplessly. Nowhere to go! Time seemed to click into slow motion, everything happening at a crawl. Instinctively, she tried to fling herself aside. Felt her muscles contract, felt her weight s.h.i.+ft as she lunged to the right. Too late, too slow. Her own movements were as slow as everything else-as slow as everything but her racing thoughts. She saw the Amerindian runner's finger whiten as he tightened down on the trigger. She was right out in the open, no cover. No time to reach cover. I'm dead, she thought, expecting any instant to feel the bullets flaying her flesh from her bones. She heard herself start to yell, her voice pitched too low, like sound from a tape running slow. "Noooo!"

A big gun boomed.

In slow motion, she saw Knife-Edge's chest armor fracture under the impact, saw the fireball burst into life where the bullet struck him. Saw his chest cavity deform as the round tore through him. Saw it burst out the other side like a fist-sized glob of blood and tissue, with a dart of burning, molten metal at its core.

The runner's weapon came up, his death-spasm clenching down on the trigger. A long burst sprayed into the ceiling, tearing great holes in the acoustic tile. The impact of the bullet slammed him off balance, and he fell-slowly, ponderously, like a felled tree.

Sly's own lunge was carrying her off her chair, to the right. Nothing she could do to stop it. As she fell, still in slow motion, she saw Falcon. Somehow he'd managed to drag himself up onto his elbows, managed to bring the sniper rifle to bear. He was staring at the ruins of Knife-Edge, his mouth hanging open, eyes glazed with agony, face pale from wound shock and loss of blood. She saw him slump down again.

Sly hit the ground hard, too distracted to turn the fall into the roll she'd intended. As the impact drove the air from her lungs, time seemed to snap back to full-speed again.

Gasping, she forced herself to her feet. The room looked like a slaughterhouse. The air was filled with the sweet, sickening smell of blood-the reek of feces, of cordite, of hot metal.

Mary's head appeared from behind the bed. Looked at what was left of Knife-Edge, her face going pale.

"Do something for Falcon," Sly ordered breathlessly. Mary jumped to obey.

Sly looked around at the chaos. In the distance, she could hear the wail of an approaching siren.

"Now it's over," she whispered.

Epilogue.

1430 hours, May 20, 2054.

The mid-afternoon sun beat down from a cloudless sky, the small waves of the Caribbean Ocean shattering the golden light into sparkling shards. Without a breeze, it would have been brutally hot. But there was a breeze, blowing from the east-from the landward side-carrying with it the sweet-fresh smell of tropical flowers and verdant forest. The fourteen-meter powerboat-the Out of the Shadows-swung easily at anchor, a kilometer off the west coast of the island of Saint Lucia.

Sharon Young sat on the flybridge, sprawled bonelessly in the pilot's seat, a broad, floppy-brimmed hat sheltering her from the worst of the sun's onslaught. Her skin was tanned a deep mahogany. Little rivulets of sweat ran down her body, darkening the waistband of her sky-blue monokini. On the rail, within easy reach, was a large gin and tonic-real gin, still available and not prohibitively priced in the islands. On the deck beside her was a pair of binoculars-also within easy reach if she wanted to take a closer look at any of the other boats anch.o.r.ed in the bay, or examine the huge spear-like mountain that the chart identified as the Gros Piton.

She sighed. She'd been aboard the Shadows for almost two months now, cruising slowly-aimlessly, almost- through the island chains of the Caribbean League. Just taking it easy, unwinding slowly. Stopping wherever the mood took her, going ash.o.r.e or simply lounging aboard. The Shadows had enough fresh-water capacity and storage s.p.a.ce that Sly could provision the vessel for almost three weeks at sea without having to resupply. Which was just the way she liked it.

She ran a hand along the polished teak rail. My boat. She could still hardly believe it, even after two months.

After the debacle at the motel room, after the death of Knife-Edge, they'd gone to ground in the shadows of Cheyenne. Mary had stayed by Falcon's bedside the entire time-almost two weeks-that it had taken for magic and medicine to bring the young shaman-ganger back from the brink of death. During that time. Sly had spent a couple of hours a day wandering around the Cheyenne corner of the Matrix, just generally checking things out-watching the newsbases, monitoring megacorp activities in Sioux and elsewhere. Never trying to crack into anything that was protected, of course, and definitely never getting even close to anything that looked like it was related to either the Sioux military or the Corporate Court.

The corp war was over-all signs of conflict vanished as though they'd never existed. That had been obvious from the first moment Sly had started monitoring network activity, but it had taken her several days to completely believe it. There'd been hints of transfer payments between megacorps-no doubt rest.i.tution for "lost a.s.sets," personnel and equipment killed or mangled during the fighting. (She'd wondered what the dead soldiers would think about that. . . .) The Corporate Court had apparently been directing those transfer payments, and the Zurich Orbital Bank had been handling all the transactions. So didn't that mean that the Court was back in control of everything? Business as usual . . .

It had been harder to keep track of the maneuvering within the Sioux Nation's military and governmental apparatus, but in time she'd picked out a few "indirect indicators," which had given her some clue about what was going on without getting her close enough to trigger an alert. It had certainly looked as though Mary was right-the Sioux military had been doing some major housecleaning. The Office of Military Intelligence had undergone a ma.s.sive purge-a "restructuring," according to the bureaucratese. Most of the big players in the OMI had been transferred elsewhere in the military complex, but some-including the head honcho, one Sheila Wolffriend-had simply vanished. Gone, never to be heard of again. End of story. Then the military had just closed ranks, and that was it. Business as usual there, too.

Toward the end of Falcon's convalescence, Sly had gathered up her courage and taken a look into the Seattle Matrix. Status quo ante there as well-no changes, everything running as if there'd never been a corp war on the horizon. She'd checked her own records, too, just to see if anyone had tied her in with the events in Sioux.

Somebody had, that had been immediately obvious. According to the files, Sharon Louise Young now had an account in the Zurich Gemeinschaft Bank. An account with a balance in the low seven digits. An off-planet account, free from any kind of tax and exempt from UCAS Internal Revenue Service scrutiny.

When Sly first saw this, she'd jacked out at once, sweating in panic. A trap? Somebody waits for me to make a withdrawal, and then everyone and his fragging dog jumps me. . . .

But then she'd gone back in and approached the information from a dozen different angles. There'd been no traps or traces around the account. Nothing other than the bank's own monolithic security. No deckers watching for access. Using various blinds and covers, sh.e.l.l companies and s.h.i.+lls, she'd tried to withdraw some of the credit, transfer it to a blind account in a bank in Casper, Sioux Nation. No problem. The transfer had gone through faster than any bank transaction Sly had ever seen-no doubt the Casper bank had jumped frosty when they'd seen where the credit was coming from.

The next day the electronic mail message had arrived. Not at any of her sh.e.l.l companies or layers of protection. Delivered electronically directly to her cyberdeck. Addressed to Sharon Louise Young. From the Board of Directors of the Zurich-Orbital Bank. When she'd gotten over the shakes and the sweats-how the frag did they track her down so easily?-she read the message.

The account balance was a payment for services rendered, authorized by the Corporate Court itself. No specifications as to just what services, but Sly didn't have too much trouble venturing a guess. For stopping the corp war, of course. For letting everyone forget about geeking each other, for letting everyone get back to the profitable business of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the consumer.

The e-mail message had ended with a suggestion that there was "no need to contact the Court to thank them or to discuss this matter in any way." In other words, take the money, shut up, and get out of our hair for good. It had seemed like an excellent idea.

And so Sharon Young-Sly no more-was in retirement, long-awaited and well-deserved.

And, much as she hated to admit it, she was getting bored. She'd left Falcon and Mary behind in Cheyenne- with a fair chunk of credit each, of course-left her old life and the shadows far behind. But . . .

You could take the runner out of the shadows, but you couldn't take the shadows out of the runner-or something like that.