Lone Wolf (37 page)

“Of course,” she says simply.

I just wait for the other shoe to drop, and sure enough it
does.

“I can pass the proof to you, Mr. Larson. Or, if we come to an agreement, you can leave it entirely up to us.”

My skin crawls. “What kind of agreement?”

Her smile grows broader. “Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it? We both have problems, Mr. Larson, and each of us represents an answer to at least some of the other person’s problems. You, for example, want to see something done about the bioweapons, and you also want your name cleared . . . preferably at the expense of Schrage, Drummond, Layton, and McMartin. Am I right?” I don't even bother answering. “I, on the other hand, need a leader for the surgical strike I’m planning against Nova Vita Cybernetics’ Pillar Rock facility.”

I just stare at her, not caring that I must be gaping like a gaffed fish. Argent’s eyebrows have shot up almost into his hairline, just about the most unrestrained emotion I’ve seen from the chromed runner. “You move quick, lady,” I tell her, in honest respect.

She accepts the compliment with a tilt of her head. “The strike planning is underway,” she reiterates. “My people are recruiting forces as we speak. But the slot of strike leader is open, and I’d like you to fill it.”

The woman’s brass is unbelievable. “No fragging way,” I say with a grim laugh. “Find another fragging pigeon,
leal."

Her expression becomes harder and I know I’ve stung her at last, but her voice retains the same smooth control. “Think about it, Mr. Larson,” she says calmly. “We can both benefit if you accept.”

“Yeah? Like how?”

“On our side, I should think it’s fairly obvious. The ... I believe ‘assets’ is the correct word . . . The assets performing the raid don’t have to know the mission’s purpose. All they need know is their specific assignments and the fact that they’ll be paid on completion. They don’t have to know the central objective of the raid—and, for obvious reasons, that’s exactly how we want it.” I nod. Yeah, that’s obvious— Lynne-slitch wouldn’t want anyone to know that Timothy’s playing with bioweapons.

“The strike leader’s another story, of course,” she continues. “He has to know the purpose and all the background.”

“So?”

“So,” she continues smoothly, “the ideal situation is for the strike to be led by someone who’s already aware of the issues.” She smiles coldly. “We would be most satisfied if
we could keep the number of people who are, er, in the
know as small as possible.

“And then there’s the issue of your knowledge, Mr. Larson. You know a lot that could be very damaging to my concerns. I’d very much like to—shall we say—defuse the threat you represent.”

“By putting me in the front line and getting me geeked? No thanks, lady, I’ve played that game once before.”

She shakes her head. “You misunderstand. You’re a professional, Mr. Larson. I understand that. And a professional always takes precautions. A data time-bomb, for example. That file you’ve been threatening me with, stored in a secure system, with a broadcast utility and a distribution list. If you’re not alive to send the system a password every day, the utility sends the file to all the news media you’ve mentioned. Isn’t that the way it works?”

I nod. I haven’t set up something like that—not yet—but you can bet your hoop I would if I figured I was stepping into harm’s way.

“The best way to defuse that threat,' the elf woman goes on, “is to arrange things so it’s no longer in your best interests to use the data while you’re still alive. If we happen to kill you, yes, certainly the file will get distributed. But if we ... link . . . you to the events in some highly negative way, you’ll never be able to use the data for blackmail. Do you understand?”

I think I’m starting to, and it’s certainly an elegant idea. Okay, I’ve got evidence that some faction within the Telestrian empire is doing the dirty with bioweapons. But if Lynne-slitch has proof I’ve become voluntarily involved in something highly illegal—like a paramilitary raid on a private corp facility, for instance—I can’t release my dirt without incriminating myself. My data still retains its value as a life insurance policy—if I’m dead, I won’t care whether I’m incriminated in the raid or not—but it’s no longer grist for the blackmail mill. “Smooth move, lady,” I tell her, and again my admiration’s sincere.

She accepts it as no more than her due. “Sometimes the best way to negotiate is to lay all your cards on the table,” she allows. She pauses, and shifts mental gears. “Those are the reasons why your participation benefits us. But you’re wondering what might be in it for you.”

I think I can guess where she’s going, but I keep my yap shut and let her tell it. "First, the obvious. Because you’re in command, you’ll know the job’s been done right. You’ll know appropriate action has been taken. Second, in return for your aid, I and my associates”—meaning James Telestrian III, no doubt—“will use our influence to eliminate Schrage, Drummond, Layton, and McMartin as threats to you, and to lift the ‘sanction order’ filed against you.”

Yeah, I’d read that right. I let a faint cynical smile show on my face. “Is that it,
leil?”
I ask with a sneer.

Her eyes flash, but her expression doesn’t change. “I’d hoped I could convince you merely by describing the carrot,” she says coolly. “Brandishing the stick is so inelegant. Still, if you insist . .

And now her face looks pure predator. “If you don’t agree to my suggestion, I’ll enjoy issuing my own sanction order against you, Mr. Larson. Trust me, the operatives I select will be much better at their job than anyone you’ve ever faced before—than anyone you’ve ever had nightmares about facing. If you’re very good, you might be able to hide from Lone Star’s executioners. You will never be able to escape mine. Trust me on that.”

I do. If there’s one single, solitary part of the slitch’s entire proposal that I believe—wholeheartedly, right down to the core of my soul—it’s the gravity of this threat. I force myself to ignore the sick knot of fear that’s settled in my gut, and struggle to keep my face expressionless. “You’ve got an interesting negotiating style,” I tell her as smoothly as I can.

“Does that mean you accept?”

I sigh. “Yes.” I studiously keep myself from glancing at Argent.

For a few seconds, at least. Lynne Telestrian’s next words break that resolution. “I assume Argent is with you, am I right?”

The runner’s eyebrows shoot up again, and his metal hands click as they clench into fists. For a moment I think he’s going to ignore her. But then he rises slowly and crosses into the field of view of the telecom’s vid pickup. “I’m here,” he says, his voice like oiled metal.

“My .. .
invitation .. .
extends to you as well,” she says with a faint smile. “Your skills would be of great value in the strike.”

Argent smiles. “I think my comrade put it quite succinctly. No fragging way. Find another fragging pigeon,
leal. ”

She looks mildly surprised. “You don’t even want to hear a business offer?”

The runner doesn’t react for a second or two, then he shrugs. “I’ll listen.” I grind my teeth. Of course he’ll fragging listen. He’s a fragging shadowrunner, isn’t he? And now you’re talking his language—biz and credit. Just flash enough nuyen signs and Mr. fragging Argent will jump frosty and do any little thing you say. That’s what being a shadowrunner means.

“I’m willing to offer you a sum of thirty thousand nuyen in bearer share certificates,” the elf-woman says crisply, then smiles faintly. “Telestrian Industries Corporation stock, of course. To give you extra incentive to keep certain matters quiet. Desert Wars veteran and shadowrunner or not, I think you’ll agree that’s fair payment for a single day’s work.”

I shoot a glance at Argent, but don’t say anything. Desert Wars veteran? No fragging wonder he’s such a tough bastard.

The runner’s smile broadens. “Thirty thousand? No way, lady.” He pauses, and his smile fades. “And don’t even bother coming back with a counter-offer.”

Lynne-slitch frowns. “You said you’d listen.”

“Just long enough so I could laugh in your face, scum,” he says lightly. The elf starts to cloud up big-time, drawing breath to say something that’s bound to be poisonous. But Argent cuts her off. “Give me a reason, chummer. Give me a good fragging reason why I should want to come along.’ That knocks her off balance; I can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t answer for a moment, and I can almost hear the thoughts churning wildly. Then she nods slowly. “I think I see,” she muses. “Try this, then.

“Do you know why no magically activated viruses are currently being used commercially or have even been developed?” she asks, her voice deceptively calm. “At first blush, it would seem to be an incredibly rich and useful technology. For tumor treatment or control, perhaps. Or control of other diseases. The virus is insinuated into the body, but triggered only at the opportune moment—when a symptom manifests itself, perhaps, or when the virus is concentrated in the cancerous tissue.” She shrugs. “Those are only a few possibilities, ones that came to my mind over the last hour. I’m sure any viral geneticist or medical researcher could come up with thousands more. So why aren’t we seeing this technology in widespread use?

“Because of the risks,” she answers herself. “All attempts to insert mana-sensitive introns into genetic material have led to a drastic weakening of the DNA or RNA chain. Obviously, if the introns are already there—as they are in species subject to Awakening—there’s no weakening ... or very little, at any rate. But in all attempts to . . . er, retrofit the introns, the results are totally unpredictable.”

“Weakening.” The word’s out of my mouth before I know I’m about to speak. “What kind of weakening?”

“It manifests itself in terms of vastly increased susceptibility to micro-and macro-mutation,” she says flatly. “The genetic code is very unstable, and can shift drastically from generation to generation.”

“Antigenic shift,” I murmur, remembering Doc Dicer’s description of the virus that killed Paco.

I didn’t think I’d said it loud enough for anyone to hear, but Telestrian picks up on it. “Yes, antigenic shift is one consequence, but more drastic changes are also possible. The reason magically activated viruses aren’t used is that nobody knows what they’re going to turn into.” Her voice is cold—or maybe it’s just my reaction to what she’s saying. “The antitumor virus, tailored to attack cancerous cells exclusively, shifts and starts attacking only those cells that
aren’t
cancerous.

“Think of the potential consequences,” she goes on. “As you stated in your report, Mr. Larson, the virus that infected the Cutters is closely related to the VITAS 3 retrovirus. Not VITAS 4 . . . not yet. I’m no viral geneticist, but it seems to me the transition between non-infective and infective— between targeted bioweapon and lethal pandemic—isn’t a particularly big one.

“The raid will go on, with or without you, Argent. But I’d say the chances of success—of blowing the lab and destroying all stocks of the virus—are much greater with you along.

“And that,” she concludes, “seems to me to be a good enough reason.”

Silence. Nobody moves, nobody talks. It stretches longer and longer—probably only seconds, but it feels like half a fragging hour. Finally Argent nods once, briskly. “I’m in,” he says.

“Good,” Lynne Telestrian purrs. “Hold for details.”

28

Fragged if I know what to make of it. I’m starting to get the uncomfortable feeling that the whole fragging world is conspiring to take my preconceptions and cherished attitudes and drop them into the drekker. Like, “The Star’s different from other megacorps.” Wrong! And like, “Shadowrunners care about squat except money.” Wrong! They’re both hard to swallow, but I think I’m having more trouble with the second one.

Well, actually that’s not true, since the second one’s connected to the first. Here’s how it scans out in my mind. As a Star undercover op, I’m working out of the light to further the ends of the corp that pays my salary. Kind of like a shadowrunner, neh? The only thing that sets me apart is that I’m doing what I’m doing for reasons other than improving my cred balance, and runners don’t do that ... Except that Argent, the quintessential shadowrunner, is taking on something because it’s important to him even though it won’t net him any cred at all. So where, then, do you draw the line between me and Argent, tell me that? It’s a tough fragging question, and one that’s twisting up my guts.

Okay, yeah, that’s not the only thing that’s twisting up my guts. There’s a healthy dose of pre-op tension as well. And why not? I’m sitting on one of the rear benches of an
assault-rigged GMC Riverine, crushed between Argent to
my left and the boat’s gunwale to my right, wearing a suit of medium body armor that feels half a size too small, holding a smartgun-modified assault rifle. Ironically enough it’s a vz 88V; I wonder if Lynne Telestrian bought it from the fragging Cutters. On top of all that, I’m trying to bend my mind around an unfamiliar datachip in my skillwire chipjack. Beyond Argent, and across the rear deck area, are the other elements of Assault Team Able—eight hard-bitten merc types, wearing the same kind of armor as mine and packing a frightening assortment of weapons.

It’s just like those few minutes in the Bulldog with Paco, Bart, and Marla—all dead now—as we’re coming up on the Eighty-Eights’ warehouse by the docks. Like, but unlike, too. There’s the same level of tension, but it’s much more focused here and now. The quantity of chatter is a lot less, and and so is the forced bravado. All the slags sitting around me—most with their face-shields down, looking not quite human—have done this before, many times, and probably under worse conditions. Sure, there’s some degree of checking out weapons and sharpening knives, but it’s not for show like it was among the gangers. These slags—men and women, humans and other metatypes—have gone through enough drek that they’ve got nothing left to prove to anyone, even themselves. That’s the way I read it, at least.