NEVER TRUST AN ELF

By Robert N. Charrette

WHO UNDERSTANDS THE WAYS OF ELVES AND DRAGONS?

Some say that the dragons are the most powerful beings on Earth. Certain elves disagree with that belief in the strongest, most violent terms.

An ork of the Seattle ghetto, Kham usually worries about more mundane problems. Day-to-day existence in the now magically active world of 2053 is already tough enough. But all that is about to change.

Drawn into a dangerous game of political and magical confrontation, Kham not only learns to never deal with a dragon—he also discovers that trusting an elf might just be the death of him...

1

The haze over Puyallup Barrens was thick, as usual. The sun, sinking toward the Olympic Mountains on the other side of the Sound, was already starting its evening display. Kham squinted at it. The sun was playing hide-and-seek among the clouds, but dark would not come for an hour or so. Not that he was worried—he was ork and orks were made for the night—but if he kept on now, he’d be home before dark. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get there so soon.

Slowing his pace, he looked around for a patch of quiet, a doorway or an alley mouth with a good view of the street. Halfway down the block he found one, an old theater complete with a marquee that would shelter him in case of a shower. He scanned the graffiti on the wall. Hotbloods turf, by the signs. Zero sweat. He was neutral to them right now. They wouldn’t mind him taking up their space, as long as he was ready to vacate the moment they showed up. He moved into the shadow under the marquee, feeling the coolness of the coming night already hanging in the darkened air.  Settling in, he leaned back against the chill stone.

Things hadn’t gone well today. Not that they’d been bad, but not good was bad today. No nuyen to dump onto Lissa’s credstick. Everything was dry. Dry, dry, dry. Nobody talking and nobody doing. Worse, nobody running. Leastways, as far as his contacts could tell him. To go looking daywise had been an act of pure desperation, but he still had not turned up a speck of work, and no work meant no cred. And the prospect of going home to Lissa without fresh cred was not very appealing.

She would be all over him about it. Probably start ragging him again to sign up with a corp or the fed army. Didn’t she know that either of those options would mean he wouldn’t be around much? Yeah, he supposed she did. Maybe that’s what she wanted. She hadn’t eased off since he came back from old Doc Smith’s place with the replacements.

He looked down at the chromed cybernetic hand protruding from his right sleeve. It wasn’t state of the art, but it worked. He had almost died the day he lost that hand. What would have happened then? Where would that have left Lissa? Worse, what about the kids? At least he was still around, still able to protect and provide for them. Right, he thought, like today. Well, most of the time anyway.

He started sullenly down the street, watching the locals and the daytrippers. With its plentiful and well-fortified shops, Cullen Avenue was one of the nicer parts of the Carbonado. But with the business day now coming to a close, this stretch of Cullen was on the cusp of becoming a nightwise place. A few of the daywise folks were starting their scurry toward their nice, safe homes. He could see in their hasty pace and frequent glances at the sinking sun that they didn’t find the prospect of gathering twilight nearly as comforting as he did.

The streets were crowded still. Most of the folks were still just folks, going about their business, but a few among them were heralds of the nightwise types that would soon haunt these same streets. A beefy ork girl was hooking on the next corner, while across the way a trio of bedraggled chipheads were begging. There would be more of both soon. Then a knot of leather-clad dwarfs came strutting past. Dressed in Ironmonger colors, they scoped Kham out as they approached. He gave them a smile, showing just a little of his upper tusks, and rubbed his broken lower tusk with a chromed thumb. The short, burly one behind the leader whispered something into his warlord’s ear and they kept on moving.

By far the bulk of the crowd were breeders: stupid, puny, thin-skinned norms. They and the occasional elf scurried along the sidewalk, heading for whatever they called security for the night. The norms were being bright, since they weren’t nightwise. Elves could see in the dark as well as any ork, but Kham supposed they were being bright, too. None of the Barrens that hedged in any of the megacity sprawls were kind or gentle places after dark.

And Puyallup Barrens, one of the two that had spawned in the Seattle sprawl, was no different. An urban backwater like Puyallup was nobody’s first choice for a home, maybe everybody’s last. That’s why so many orks like Kham ended up here. Forced into the places nobody else wanted. Forced to scratch and scrape to get by. Forced out of the nice places because they weren’t powerful enough to object. Or didn’t have enough political clout. Or firepower. Or whatever it took to hold onto the good places.

Kham had grown up here and survived. So far. He had survived the gangs, the hate, the riots, and everything else the Barrens threw at him. And he’d thrived, clawing his way to the top of the gangs and eventually putting together an alliance of gangs that had ruled Carbonado. Past history, he mused. Gangs were kid stuff, and he wasn’t a kid anymore. He had reached his full growth and would be twenty in a few years.

Twenty!

He didn’t really want to think about that. It was much better to dream of the day he’d be living in style. But style meant nuyen, which again brought him back to the reality that he’d not done very well at collecting any today. 

There weren’t many ways for an ork to pile up the nuyen. Sure, he could have gone into the fed army or one of the private corp ones, something he’d considered when younger, much younger; but hearing Black Jim’s stories when Jim came home to the neighborhood on leave from the feds, Kham knew that the regimented life was not for him. He’d thought about it long and hard, and the only conclusion he could reach was that if you can’t make your nuyen legally, you gotta do it illegally.

Having come to that conclusion, Kham wasted no more time. He’d started to put the gang to decent use and done a few small jobs, smart stuff that was practically built into the system, like looting the corp trucks running along 412, and only taking what couldn’t be traced. After they’d made a couple of hits, his fixer had realized that Kham wasn’t just another stupid ork kid out to break some heads, and so he’d turned him on to Sally Tsung’s ring. Lady Tsung introduced Kham to the lucrative life of shadowrunning, and one payoff was all it took for him to see the light; corp snitching just couldn’t compare. He’d dropped the gangs and signed on with Lady Tsung.

His hard-built alliance had crumbled while he attended to other matters, but he hadn’t cried. He’d worked to build the gang, using it to his advantage while still the boss, but he didn’t need it anymore. Nothing wrong with that. That was the way the world worked. You grabbed what you could, held on as long as you needed it, and when something better came along, you grabbed that instead. Had to keep the nuyen flowing in. Had to look out for yourself.

Shadowrunning offered almost everything the gangs had. There was action, excitement, and firepower—lots of firepower on the right run. The only thing missing was the power and the respect, the chance to make a difference on your turf, and all the chummers looking up to you. Then again, maybe running the shadows did offer those things, but in a different way. A runner could make a difference, but it was subtler, excepting of course the differences to your cred balance. Those differences were truly truly sig—at least when the nuyen was rolling in. And the respect was there too. The scuzboys and streetrats like those Ironmongers gave wide berth to Kham now that word was about that he played in the big leagues. It was the personal stuff that wasn’t there. Sure, he had his guys, and they were some of the best rocking orks ever to pack big guns, but they were runners like him and mostly loyal to the biggest buck. They weren’t his the way the gang had been.

Drek! He was supposed to be thinking about the future, not the past. Only old guys found the past brighter than the future and Kham was not an old guy yet!

Kham heaved himself up, ready to be on his way, when some old fool plowed into him. Kham swung a hard backhand, then realized halfway through the swipe that the idiot wouldn’t have gotten close enough to collide if Kham hadn’t already dismissed him as a threat. Kham pulled his blow, but he still bounced the guy into the wall. Catching him as he rebounded off the brick, Kham recognized the guy, and his condition.

“You’re blasted, Kittle George.”

“Huh?” The gray-haired ork frowned as he tried to bring his vision into focus. “Kha—”

Kham heaved him upright in time to avoid getting anything on himself when Kittle George started to vomit. Kham watched him in disgust. This was how old orks ended up.

Kittle George swayed erect and staggered on down the street. Too drunk to walk a straight line, he caromed off the street folk he passed as he stumbled along the sidewalk. Kham caught up with him in a few strides, grabbed an arm, and hauled him erect.

“Ya ought ta go home, Georgie.”

“Am goin’ home,” Kittle George slurred.

“Yer home’s de odder way.”

Kittle George looked around confusedly, then squinted at Kham. “I knew tha’.”

Kham shook his head sadly. “Ya want me ta walk ya dere?” He didn’t really want to, but he thought he should offer. Kittle George was ork, too, and orks had to stick together. Besides, walking Georgie home would mean being able to put off going home himself for a bit longer.

They strolled along the streets, Kham keeping his pace to something Kittle George could manage. Taking the offered bottle, Kham took the swig required of friendship, then managed to drop the bottle. Accidentally, of course. Then he had to drop it again before the brittle plastic would shatter. Georgie cried over the loss, embarrassing Kham, but fortunately Kham didn’t recognize anyone in the crowds that flooded around them. He got Kittle George underway again.

The old ork started mumbling a long list of complaints. Life hadn’t been treating him very well. But that was no surprise. He was ork. What did life have for orks besides trouble anyway?

They had reached Kittle George’s place, a condemned tenement just like the others lining the streets. The Seattle metroplex government had condemned it, then left it; lacking the money to trash it, they certainly did not have enough to replace it. People still lived there because it offered a roof and walls. The rent was cheap, too. Kittle George had prime space in the basement, the warmest spot in an unheated building during the winter. Kittle George had company then; but it was still autumn and the neighbors hadn’t moved in yet.

“Ya gonna be okay, Georgie?”

“Yeah. Gonna get some sleep. Wish I had a bottle, though.”

“Sleep’s good, Georgie.” Hoping the old guy would forget about the bottle, Kham pointed him toward the stairs and made sure the drunk had a grip on the rail before urging him down into the darkness. “Just get some sleep.”

The old man mumbled something as he went down the stairs, but Kham didn’t understand a word of it. Booze and age, the bane of an ork’s life—if despair and drugs didn’t get him first.

As Kittle George disappeared, a shadow fell over Kham. He turned slowly, careful to avoid sudden moves. The big troll he found grinning at him was familiar. Grabber worked as a bouncer at Shaver’s Bar; he also was a small-time fixer. The troll’s operational area ran about five blocks north and south of Kittle George’s, along Cullen, and out west all the way to the wall that marked the Salish-Shidhe boundary with the plex. The troll was rumbling with a deep chuckling.

“Hoi, Grabber. Whuzappenin’ down at Shaver’s?”

“Hoi, Kham,” the troll boomed. “Bodyguarding these days, chummer?”

Kham shrugged.

For a troll, Grabber was moderately bright; the troll picked up on the fact that Kham didn’t find any humor in his poor joke, and so tried some more innocuous small talk. “Been quiet at the club. Just the usual. No sweat ’cepting Saturday night.”

Kham had heard about the riot. “Local scuzboys giving ya trouble?”

“Nah.” Grabber cracked his knuckles, and smiled. “Just a workout. Ain’t seen you lately.”

Kham shrugged again. He hadn’t worked Grabber’s turf in a while—after what had happened the last time he hoped he wouldn’t be anytime soon, either. Who could say, though? Things had been pretty slow lately. “Been busy.”

“Not what Lissa says. Says you been hanging home a lot. Things slow?”

Did everybody know? He stifled a sharp retort. Gotta stay chill, he told himself. If you say you ain’t doing biz, you don’t do no biz. Nobody wanted a washed-out runner. For the third time, Kham shrugged, but this time he added a raised eyebrow to let Grabber know he’d listen.

The troll made an elaborate affair of checking the now sparse street crowd to see if anyone was close enough to hear. “Jack Darke’s running. Looking for muscle, I hear.”

“Solo, or he need a whole gang?”

“Solo.”

“Personal interest on Darke’s part, or will any ork do?”

“Must be personal, chummer. Otherwise I’d be running it instead of shopping it to you.”

Kham hesitated. Once he would have jumped at the chance. Drek, maybe he should jump at it. He could convince himself that he needed the work, couldn’t he? That the other guys didn’t matter. But he didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the offer. “Ain’t interested,” he said sourly. “Ain’t no room in da run for my guys, ain’t no room for me. When ya got a crew ta worry about, ya got responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities tie a man down, chummer.”

“What would ya know about dat, Grabber?”

It was Grabber’s turn to shrug. “I hear things.”

Kham was annoyed by the turn of the conversation. “Well, ya ain’t hearin’ yes from me. Darke’ll have ta find his muscle somewhere else.”

Grabber squinted his larger eye almost shut, and leaned down. His voice was modulated to a conspiratorial tone, which meant it could probably be heard only half a block away. “Last chance. Good money, all certified cred.”

“Some odder time.”

Straightening up, Grabber said, “You called it, chummer. Maybe some other time. Maybe not. Stay chill, chummer. Careful you don’t get so cold you freeze.”

“My worry, Grabber.”

“Like I said, chummer, you called it,” the troll replied. He eased his way down the street, amusement rumbling deep inside him.

Angered by the troll’s reaction, Kham watched him go. Did it really matter what the troll thought? Grabber was small fish. But then, so was Kham. Darke, now. Darke was a bigger fish. Not as big as Sally Tsung, but bigger than Grabber and Kham. But Darke was running and Sally wasn’t, which meant Darke was paying and Sally wasn’t.

Drek! If he didn’t take it himself, he might have hired out one of the guys. Rabo had kids, too, and was as hard up for cash. They all needed to score. So why was he worrying about the guys when he had troubles of his own? Why didn’t he just take the job and put the nuyen in his own pocket like any corp putz would do? Responsibilities? Drek! He hated being grown up.

Grabber was almost out of shouting range. It wasn’t too late to call him back, and Kham almost did. Then he thought about how that would look to the fixer.

Besides losing face, Kham was sure that the offered pay for the run would now be less than it was. With Darke’s personal interest, that price would have been Kham’s going rate. Calling Grabber back, making himself look hungry, would drive the fee down. If he took the run at the lower price, word of it would get around and that would also be bad for business. Once a shadowrunner’s price starting going down, it wasn’t likely to go up again. The jobs would get cheaper and cheaper and eventually you’d face a dirty run for dirt and then you’d end up under the dirt. Kham wasn’t ready for that, so he let the troll go on walking.

But maybe he was ready to go home. It was almost dark, but still early enough that Kham didn’t feel underarmed with his Smith and Wesson .45 in his side holster and the Walther in the underarm sling. His big, thirty-six-centimeter survival knife slapped against his thigh, reminding him that he had blades as well: two cutters in boot sheaths and a half-dozen shivs in various concealed places. He had a pair of knucks in his jacket pocket, too. Not much, but then he’d be home before the real predators came out.

The people on the street were mostly orks now. Kham tried to tell himself that there were no more chipheads on the street than before, that it was just a change in the proportions of straight to chipped. But he knew better. There really were more of the simsense addicts and most of those new addicts were orks. Chipheads were lost in their simsense fantasies and rarely showed the caution a straight—norm or ork—would show. Day or night, they lived somebody else’s life inside their heads. Who knew what time it was in there?

Kham buzzed. He kept aware of his surroundings, as was prudent, but he tried to tune out the chipheads. He wasn’t very successful. Too many of them had his brother’s face.

By the time he hit his neighborhood, he was really sour. He checked his stride as he turned onto Greely and saw three orks of his crew gathered in front of Wu’s grocery. The guys were obviously keeping watch on somebody down the street. Kham cheered up; maybe he’d run into a little action to make him feel better. Kham started forward again, his step livelier. John Parker was the first to notice him coming.

“Hey, hoi, Kham. Where ya been, bossman?”

“’Round.” They went through the ritual punching and tussles. “Whuzzappenin’? Got hostiles on the turf?”

“Nah,” Rabo whined. “Nothing so much fun. Then again, maybe there will be fun. Got a suitboy looking for you by name.”

“He’s hanging over there,” Ratstomper said, pointing with her head. A man stood in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, next to a fire-gutted tenement in the next block down. “Told him to wait. We knew you’d be along.”

Kham looked and noted that the man was unfamiliar. He was also a stranger to Orktown. Though he was wearing a long coat, lined with armor no doubt, thrown open and back to reveal street-smart leathers, he was clearly not at home on the streets. He looked too nervous. Kham thought he’d probably smell that way close up. This guy was a suit, no doubt about it.

The man was tall and on the thin side. Though too bulky for an elf, he might be mistaken for one by a less astute observer. He didn’t fool Kham, though. He wondered if the suit knew how dangerous such a resemblance could be. If he did, he had plenty of reason to be nervous. The Ancients, an elf biker gang with no permanent territory but claiming all of Seattle for their own, had rumbled through two nights ago. Those elves had no friends in Orktown, and had used their visit to make a few more enemies. Tempers were still up, and any elf, or even a human who looked like one, could end up the target of well-deserved hate. If the suitboy knew what had gone down, he was brave to come around without backup. It was surprising he’d gotten this far unmolested. Maybe the fact that Kham’s guys were watching him had kept the other locals off the suitboy’s back.

The man had noticed Kham’s arrival and was trying to watch the other orks without being obvious. The attempt was pathetically inept. The suit might be able to see them if his shades were set for light amplification or if he had enhanced eyes under those dark lenses, but his continual fussing said that he couldn’t hear the orks.

“Let’s see what da man has got ta say for himself.”

The guys trailed along with Kham, bouncing and hooting, in high spirits. They thought they were going to get work. Kham didn’t want to let himself believe that just yet. It had been too long and disappointing a day. He walked right up to the suit and thrust out his chin.

“Hear you’re looking fer Kham.”

To his credit, the suit did not back away, although his nose wrinkled at Kham’s smell. “Yes. Are you he?”

“Are you he?” Ratstomper said in imitation of the man. “Fancy, fancy for Orktown, chummer.”

The others laughed at her remark, but the man held onto his calm. “Can you take me to him?”

“Might,” Kham replied.

“There is remuneration in it for you.”

Fancy words. Upscale words. The suitboy needed to be reminded of where he was, so Kham asked, “Re-what?”

“Money.”

“Dat I understand.” Rabo was nudging John Parker and grinning. “How much?”

“That depends on how quickly you take me to him.’

“Dis is hot biz, den.”

“There is a time element.”

Turning, Kham backed up half a step, letting the man relax, then swung back. “Why Kham?”

Startled, the man was silent for a moment before blustering, “I’ll discuss that with him.”

Kham leaned into the man, eye to eye. His bulk was impressive and he let it have its usual effect on a norm. “Ya tell me, or Kham never hears.” The gang snickered behind him. Kham was hoping the man would take it as a threat. “Well?”

The man was breathing heavily, and, yes, he did smell nervous. “There is to be a trip. The persons taking it want protection. They are looking for discreet persons who are able to handle themselves in case of trouble.”

“A muscle job.”

“As you say.”

“So ya come looking fer Kham. Maybe somebody else’ll do?”

“Highly questionable. It is reported that this Kham leads an efficient group experienced in such matters and able to respond on short notice. In any case, my principals specified his group.”

The gang broke out in guffaws.

“Drek, Kham,” Rabo burst out, “if we used them big words ourselves, we could charge more.”

“Y—You’re Kham?” the man stuttered.

Kham gave him a toothy grin. “Whatsamatta, suitboy? Didn’t dey give ya a pic ta spot me?”

“Of course, but I...I...”

Dropping the grin, Kham snarled. “Yeah, right. Us orks all look alike. If ya ever bodder ta look. Let’s get one ting straight, suitboy. We don’t gotta like each odder ta do biz. And I don’t like ya. Straight?”

Nodding, the man said shakily, “I understand.”

“I doubt it,” Kham said with a snort. “What’s yer schedule?”

“That you will have to discuss with, er, Mr. Johnson.”

Ratstomper piped up. “Johnson? Johnson?  That name’s familiar. Hey, John Parker, you ever hear of a Johnson doing biz in Seattle?”

“Johnson? Yeah I heard of him. He’s the short, tall, fat, skinny guy, ain’t he? A real Mr. Corp.”

“I tink ya may be right, John Parker.” Kham poked the man with a horny-nailed finger. “Okay, suitboy, when do we meet yer Mr. J.?”

“Ten o’clock at Club Penumbra. Back room Three.”

Kham grabbed the man’s shoulder and thrust him out into the street. “Ya said yer piece. Vacate.”

Catching himself before he fell, the man straightened up, stiff with repressed anger, or maybe fear. His eyes would have told the tale, but they were hidden by his dark glasses. He mumbled something, then set about straightening his clothes. By the time he’d arranged himself to his satisfaction, a black Ares Citymaster was rolling down the street toward him. It didn’t have Lone Star markings, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the cops. The twin machine guns in the turret said that; police-issue cop cars mounted water cannons.

The armored riot vehicle stopped behind the suit. He gave the orks a last hard and unfriendly smile, then climbed in. Kham and the others didn’t bother to watch the Citymaster roll away, but they stayed quiet until it was gone. John Parker was the first to speak.

“Hey, Kham, Penumbra is Sally’s territory.”

Kham shrugged. “Dis ain’t Sally’s kind of job.”

“You don’t know dat,” Ratstomper said.

Kham cuffed her. “Lady Tsung ain’t muscle. We’re muscle. Dey’s looking fer us. Dat means da Club’s okay fer a meet. Even an elf-brain like you should be able to put dat togedder.”

“So we taking it?” Rabo asked.

“Maybe. Call Sheila and Cyg, and have the Weeze check the armory.”

Kham didn’t know what the job was yet, but he knew he needed it. They all did; it had been too long since their last run. And they needed more than the money; they needed a boost in their rep and a new chance to show just how tough they were. A good run now would start the biz rolling in again. Then let the other runners in town look out. He’d show them all that he could run a gang as smooth as Lady Tsung herself. He might not have the ju-ju Sally brought to her team, but his guys had plenty of firepower, and he hadn’t yet met a wage mage who didn’t bleed when you shot him. Guns were still a good way to take out opposition magicians because a bleeding mage had a lot more on his mind than backing up the rest of the corporate goon squad with magic.

This job was muscle spec and his guys were primo muscle, something the shadow side of Seattle was going to know real soon. But first they had the meet, and he had to get ready for that.

At long last, Kham was ready to go home.

2

Meeting face to face with a client was not business as usual for Neko Noguchi. Personal contact between principal and runner was a rare thing in the shadows of Hong Kong. That was what made this intriguing.

Most of those who employed him preferred to work through virtual conferences such as Magick Matrix offered. It was a clean, safe way to do business. No one need be concerned for personal safety, because the participants did not physically attend the meeting. They sat around the virtual conference room in the form of computer-generated icons of themselves, running no risk of physical or magical danger. No concern for eavesdroppers, either, as long as one trusted the Magick Matrix staff. And that was reasonable enough because Magick Matrix employed some of the best deckers in the world and their entire livelihood depended on their integrity. The firm was something like an old Swiss bank, except they dealt in conversations instead of money. Magick Matrix didn’t care who you were, who you were talking to, or what you talked about; your conversation was the “money” they were safekeeping. All they asked was a fee for the service. Not always a small fee, either. That was something Neko understood; how could you trust someone to do something for you if he asked no compensation?

This meet had been arranged through just such a conference at Magick Matrix. Usually by now Neko would be running, or looking for another Mr. Johnson, but he had to be philosophical about it. The retainer that appeared on his credstick after the conference had, of course, made it much easier to be philosophical about the delay in getting to the heart of the matter.

Though meetings were intriguing in their own right and the byplay between prospective clients and him could be highly entertaining, he wasn’t used to more than one interview for a run. He couldn’t decide if he found the necessity for a second interview an insult, or a goad; the unusual always made him want to know more. A second layer of security might mean that the principal was paranoid, a not unlikely scenario in this world. It could also mean that this matter was one of import. Either way, there was business to do.

Without a doubt, his rep was spreading, and that pleased him.

Pleasure always came after business, unless it was a part of the business—as satisfying his curiosity would be. Having reached the place appointed for the meet, Neko had the urge to stop and consider it for a moment, but if he stood in the middle of the street staring up at Logan Tower, the crowds bustling around him would probably either bowl him over or sweep him completely away. At the very least, some minor predator would mark him as a target and try to lighten his burden by removing valuables from his person. Though he had no fear of the second possibility, Neko was concerned about the first. The crowd was beyond his abilities to control. To remove their threat, he stepped out of the traffic flow into the lee of a vegetable stand. The scrawny, over-priced legumes had no interest for him, but the cart on which they were piled shielded him from the torrent of humanity surging along the street. He looked up.

Logan Tower was one of the newer buildings on the island, and one of the tallest in the world. As one of the new skyscrapers of the new world, it had few rivals. Even the previous century’s giants like the now fallen Sears-IBM Tower and the Empire State Building could not have matched it. Logan Tower had been built after the megacorporations had asserted their control over the Hong Kong territory and disposed of the British stalking horses who had led the re-separation of Hong Kong from China. The tower was an arrogant spire, thrusting like an angry finger from the fist of lesser skyscrapers and pseudo-arcologies. It was a gesture to the mainland, made by defiant corporate interests.

Logan Tower embodied the open and free commerce of the city. Though no single megacorp owned it, or even occupied a majority of its space, many had offices there. Even the frail and self-important local government was housed among its many levels. But commerce was Logan Tower’s reason for existence and commerce was its lifeblood. Commerce, of a sort, had brought Neko here today.

He thought about checking his appearance, but could see no effective way to do so. He had to take it on faith that the suit he wore for the meet was as impeccable as when he’d put it on. It was a salaryman’s suit, the uniform of a corporate drone, and Neko had arranged the rest of his appearance to match. As his master had so often said, “To blend, everything must appear as it should, nothing must be out of place.” Including attitude. He assumed the self-centered, casually arrogant stance of a moderately highly placed corporate wage slave, and strode through the crowd.

The crowd accepted him, the lesser strata parting in deference and those of his apparent rank accommodating him wordlessly into their own navigation plans. The guards at the tower’s entrance let him pass without a glance, but those at the second barrier, who controlled access to the lifts serving the upper reaches of the tower, were less nonchalant. Nevertheless, the identification and access cards he offered them were satisfactory to their computers. They passed him through.

Neko relaxed a little when he was safely into the elevator. There had been a small possibility that the cards he had been provided at Magick Matrix might have been designed to entrap him here. That possibility still remained, for a bad interview might see the cards cancelled before he could ride the lift back to ground level. A paranoid thought, perhaps, but then paranoia was life in the shadows. Surreptitiously, he checked the hidden pocket where he carried a second set of cards, courtesy of Cog, his fixer.

The car stopped on the seventy-fifth floor, a floor devoted to an exclusive club. Neko exited, crossing the Persian carpet and then through the wood-paneled foyer to the podium. The man standing behind it was well-dressed and groomed, in an oily sort of way. He would be the maître d’. He spoke as soon as Neko had closed to a reasonable distance.

“Good day, sir. Welcome to our establishment. You are...?”

“Watanabe,” Neko replied, using the name on the identity card he carried.

“Ah yes, Watanabe-san. You are expected. Please follow me.”

The restaurant was mostly empty, no surprise, as it was only late afternoon, well before the corporate crowd would be dining. Neko knew at once which table the maître d’ was leading him toward. It was the only occupied one in the section.

Two persons sat there, a shapely young woman with ash blonde hair and a slim older man. The woman was discreetly dressed, her clothes of excellent cut and material. Golden bangles sparkled from her ears, fingers, wrists, and neck, but on her they did not seem ostentatious. Neko judged the woman to be an aide to the man, but her beauty made him wonder if she was skilled in other duties as well. Her eyes lifted to meet his and he immediately sensed the animal sensuality about her. She whispered to her companion.

The man looked up and fixed Neko with a stare. Like his companion, he was Caucasian, and by his dress and appearance, a gentleman in the European style. Neko found it hard to judge his age; the man’s gray hair was cut in an outdated style and the poise of his movements suggested the casual confidence born of decades of cultured living. Yet his face showed few lines, and barely more on the generally more revealing hands. Of course, there were techniques to hide age, but Neko’s sharp eyes saw none of the usual marks. Neko placed the man as a well-preserved fifty. Unlike his companion, he wore only a single piece of jewelry: a silver ring wrought in the shape of a dragon adorned his right hand. The man smiled, revealing gold incisors. A curious affectation, Neko thought.

“Your guest, Mr. Enterich,” the maître d’ announced, then left.

Enterich rose and started to extend a hand, then stopped himself and bowed in the Asian fashion. A shallow bow, Neko noted, one suitable for a superior upon meeting an inferior. Neko made the proper complementary bow. Then he made one to the woman, the kind suitable to another of equal stature. She merely inclined her head, remaining seated and dazzling him with a smile.

“Please be seated, Mr. Noguchi,” she said. “Or do you prefer to be addressed as Neko?”

Had he misjudged who was the superior and who the inferior? The maître d’ had referred to Neko as the man’s guest, but that could be merely an assumption on the headwaiter’s part or a deliberate deception for the benefit of observers. Caution was indicated until he understood the situation better. Neko smiled at her, and him, as he took a seat. “Here, either will do. As I am a guest, I surrender my preferences to yours.”

“Neko, then,” she said. “We wish this to be a friendly arrangement. My name is Karen Montejac.”

“And I am Enterich.”

“You are free with your names,” Neko observed.

The gold flashed in Enterich’s smile. “As are you, Neko. Also like you, our names are not to be found in any public database.”

An assertion Neko would test after the meeting. He’d try a few private databases as well. But that was a matter for later consideration; Enterich was still speaking.

“Business can wait until after we dine, can it not? As I understand it, that is the practice in your native Japan.”

“It is the practice,” Neko said, leaving unsaid the fact that he was Japanese, but not a native of Japan. He would let them believe otherwise; such a false assumption on their part might be useful later.

The meal, unsurprisingly, was superb, and the talk, though remaining inconsequential, pleasant. Both Enterich and his—as became obvious during the course of their dinner—aide were facile and engaging conversationalists, well-acquainted with the region’s folklore and history. Neko even thought he detected a glimmer of more than professional interest in Ms. Montejac’s eyes. Perhaps later, he promised himself, with a reminder of pleasure’s place in business. When the last plate of empty lobster shells had been carried away and a fresh pot of tea brought, Enterich spoke seriously.

“I am looking for a person of discretion, Neko. Are you that sort of person?”

“Great discretion is available, Mr. Enterich. For a price.”

“Cannot indiscretion be bought as well?” Karen asked.

“From some, perhaps, but not from Neko. There is some honor in the shadows.”

“That is the answer I expected from you, Neko,” Enterich said. “You are well-spoken of in certain quarters.”

Neko inclined his head in acceptance of the compliment.

“We shall proceed, then.” Enterich’s finger absently traced the dragon design on the teacup before him. “Though you have likely concluded that I am the principal in this matter, I should tell you that I am only acting as an agent. Others are seeking to assemble a team for a certain operation, a bit of business in which they anticipate some danger. I believe that your credentials as part of the force used by Samuel Verner uniquely qualify you to become a part of this team.”

Caught off-guard by the reference, Neko blurted out, “You know of that?”

Enterich’s gold teeth flashed. “I have had dealings with Mr. Verner in the past and retain an interest in his doings.”

So ka. Was this another of Verner’s runs? Or was this just a result of Neko’s growing rep? Either way, Enterich had sought Neko out specifically, but there was still a hesitancy here, a caution. A probe was called for. Neko restored calm to his voice.

“If you are aware of that run, you are aware of the kind of results I can achieve.”

“You will not have Striper at your side,” Karen said.

“I have worked without partners before.”

“This is not a solo run,” Enterich said quickly.

“Then I must confess to some confusion,” Neko said. “Your approach implies that you believe me to be the person you seek, yet your tone suggests some uncertainty about my qualifications.”

“It is not my wish to confuse you, Neko. Nor to suggest that you are unqualified. Qualifications are not at issue, nor is interest. Say, rather, that any hesitancy on our part is born of concern over willingness.”

“Price, then.”

Enterich laughed. “You are unusually direct for a Japanese. But price is a matter for later discussion. I speak of a different sort of willingness.” He paused, making a show of seeking the right words. “It is well known that most, ah, persons of your trade wish to operate exclusively where they have a secure net of contacts and intimate knowledge of their territory. I’m afraid that this job will require some travel on your part.”

“Paid for, of course.”

“Of course,” Enterich said. “Your involvement with Verner suggested that you had a wider outlook than many of your colleagues.”

“Competitors,” Neko corrected.

“Competitors.” Enterich accepted the correction with a nod. “This matter will require that you travel to Seattle.”

Neko leaned back in his chair. He could feel his excitement and hoped he was hiding it well enough. As if there were any doubt that he would agree! Seattle meant North America and an entry into UCAS, the United Canadian and American States. He had always wanted to see the States. Aloofly, he said, “If I agree.”

“Yes, of course.” Enterich smiled at him. “If you agree.” 

Neko’s mind raced. America! UCAS, with its spy nets, the quixotic southern Confederated American States, the exotic Native American Nations, and the sinister Aztlan! Such fertile ground for shadowrunning. The big-league shadowrunner circuit. Once in the States, he would find many opportunities to employ his skills. He would make a name for himself in the land that had spawned modern shadowrunning. He’d meet the legends of the trade. Maybe even meet the elven decker Dodger in person or even the shadowy Sam Verner himself.

He raised his teacup and said, “The European custom involves a drink on agreement, so ka?”

“It does, but not usually tea.” Despite his words, Enterich raised his cup and touched it to Neko’s. “Let us drink, then, and get down to details.”