Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon (38 page)

"
A great deal of money and a new identity, both of which you will need to find your sister and return her to her former estate
."

"How do you know about her?"

"
Research, Samuel Verner
.
Surely you understand the value of good research
."

"And when it's all over, I end up working for you?"

"
If you find that congenial
.
I can be a generous employer, as Jacqueline will tell you
."

As long as you are a good little samurai, blind to everything but orders, Sam suspected. "And what if I kill Drake? Do you keep murderers in your employ?"

"
How you resolve your differences with Mister Drake will be your own affair
.
I have asked only for information
.
When the affair is settled and if you have not compromised yourself with the local authorities, after all is said and done, then you may contact me through the
commcode you will receive on your way out
.

"
I can make your new path easier, Samuel Verner
."

The Dragon's voiceless words implied that his help would be more than merely mundane; an offer of magical instruction from a Dragon was hardly an everyday occurrence. Why did every powerful figure Sam met want to teach him magic? He didn't want to learn it. He just wanted to be himself. Couldn't they see that? "I don't need your help."

Disbelief swelled between them, then ebbed into amusement.

"
This Mister Drake who you seek to topple is not all that he seems
.
You will find him a formidable foe
."

"I have other resources."

The disbelief returned as the dracoform's eyelids dropped, half-closing off the fluid orbs. "
Very well. Arrangements have been made for your return to Seattle
."

"I haven't agreed to work for you."

"
You will do my work
."

The eyes closed. He had been dismissed.

__________________________

It's Dangerous Out

Here

__________________________

Dr. Andrew A. Wilson sat at his desk, scanning the letter of introduction. As he waited, Sam studied his own image on the accompanying corporate identification tag. The well-trimmed blond hair and newly grown beard framed a narrow face with calm hazel eyes and a slightly bored look. He had lost weight, but that hadn't hurt him. What showed of the suit he wore was a conservative, mid-level administrator's cut. The man in the picture looked to be a good salaryman.

What didn't show were the beginnings of toughness and smarts Sam had acquired during his recent ordeal. He hoped they'd be enough to get him through this little charade in the corporate world.

As the woman he knew as Jacqueline was hustling him onto the jet that would bring him to the Genomics reservation, she had told him that the I.D. card would only last the day. While it did, he was Samiel Voss, a Genomics certified accountant on assignment to investigate the books of Doctor Wilson's staff.

"Purely routine, doctor."

Wilson nodded, but his expression was sour as he ejected the disk from his desk console. "Everything does appear to be in order, Mr. Voss. I hope the wait hasn't inconvenienced you."

"Not at all," Sam said with a bland smile. He hoped that was the right response for an accountant kept standing while a corporate superior displayed displeasure at an interruption. It would have been the correct one at Renraku, but he didn't know the subtleties of Genomics corporate protocol.

"Fine." Wilson seemed satisfied. "I'll arrange for a work station to be assigned to you."

"I believe that my orders specified that I was to work in your office, Dr. Wilson."

"That's quite out of the question."

"Your station provides the most direct access to your staff's files, sir. Then there is the matter of confidentiality. I'm sure that Vice President Fleureaux . . ."

"All right. All right. No need to disturb the vice president." Wilson held up the I.D. tag and the introduction disk. "The station's in the corner."

"Very good, sir," Sam said as he recovered his documents. He stepped over to the work station and placed his case on the floor. Straightening, he indicated the lock. "If you would be so kind?"

With bad grace, Wilson heaved himself up and joined Sam at the workstation. The research director thumbed the lock pad, and shielding it from Sam's view, typed in an access code. As the computer beeped its readiness, Wilson stepped back to allow Sam to sit, then took up a position behind his left shoulder. Hands resting lightly on the keyboard, Sam looked up at Wilson.

"Sir, need I remind you that the International Corporate Employee Rights Act of 2035 specifically states that managers may only view an employee's personal financial records after securing a form 3329-11 and furnishing proof of malfeasance, misfeasance, criminal association, or disloyalty on the part of the employee?"

"
You
are going to be looking at them."

"Dr. Wilson, I am a certified accountant. Section 35.22 of the ICER Act specifically allows for periodic reviews of data up to the green security ratings as part of a just-compensation review. Such reviews may be instituted at any time by a call from the duly elected employee compensation spokesperson or no more than once a year by management. Additionally, in certain jurisdictions, agencies of the national government may request such reviews for purposes of ascertaining that proper tax, work permit, residency, and other requirements are being met. Furthermore—"

"Enough," Wilson cut him off. "Will you be long?"

"It is a minimal check. No more than two or three hours."

Wilson pursed his lips and exhaled through distended nostrils. "Have my secretary call me when you are finished. I'll be in Lab Three."

"Very good, sir. Have a nice day."

Sam managed to hold in his laughter until the disgruntled Wilson was out of the room. He had no idea what section 35.22 of the act contained, but apparently neither did Wilson. From the way the doctor's eyes had glazed over during Sam's matter-of-fact recitation of chapter and verse, he doubted that the research director would check.

Sam didn't waste any time getting down to business. As the workstation was slightly different from those he was used to, he took a few moments to check it out. Wilson's cyberterminal had no datajack feeder cable, for which Sam was grateful. To jack in would have been risky, and now Sam didn't have to worry about making that decision.

From his case, he retrieved the cartridge that had been Jacqueline's other gift. Like the I.D. card, it had a built-in time limit. He suspected other built-in limitations as well. Slotting it, he clicked it on. It began immediately to open files for him as its unfolding programs did the work of a trained decker. As all of Wilson's financial records scrolled onto the screen, Sam recognized several from the work he and Dodger had done in their squat in San Francisco. The doctor's own records showed Drake's money. Or so Lofwyr's chip would have him believe. The Dragon could be setting him up, duplicating the information Sam had already obtained to make it look like this raid on Wilson's files confirmed the doctor's connection to Drake.

With these thoughts, Sam realized that maybe he was beginning to understand life in the shadows, but paranoia only took a person so far.

When Sam directed the chip at Wilson's data files, the screen obligingly filled with lists of documents. None were secure research files, but that was no surprise. Lofwyr's generosity did not extend to revelations about Wilson's work.

Out of curiosity, Sam accessed the research director's personnel file. Most of it was routine, showing the steady progress of Wilson's career, with only one or two reprimands for exceeding the budget on minor projects. Nothing indicated either the corp's dissatisfaction with Wilson or his work. Indeed, Sam noted that Wilson had reported several attempts to bribe him and attempts by agents of United Oil to seduce him away from Genomics for his work with gene-tailored organisms. If Wilson was working outside the corporation, it was still a secret from his bosses.

More than ever, Sam wanted to know the nature of the doctor's research. He tried again, specifying that the chip seek out research files, but all he got back were "unacceptable instructions" messages. Using some tricks that Dodger had taught him, he set up an override program on the cyberterminal and applied it to Lofwyr's chip. The sideways approach slipped the chip's overrides and placed its penetration programs at his disposal. Grinning with satisfaction, he ordered the chip to duplicate its routines onto a blank cartridge. But when he slotted it into the console, he barely managed an abort when the chip flashed "copy attempts will erase all data." He sighed; it had been worth a try. If he was to do anything with Lofwyr's powerful can opener, it would have to be today.

He sent the chip after Wilson's research files.

An hour of coaxing and prodding got him to a data cache labelled REPLICATION PATTERNING. It contained the only file of any size that read positive for the key word "albinism." The cache was enormous and locked up tight. It took Sam another hour to open it, a feat only possible with the capabilities of Lofwyr's chip.

Time was running out. He browsed through at a rapid scan, passing extensive sections of technical documentation and experimental data as well as abstruse calculations, many of which he realized were magical formulae. That was not surprising, for Wilson was a mage. But linking magic with controversial biotechnological techniques seemed innately wrong to Sam.

When he jumped ahead to FIELD TEST RESULTS, almost immediately he was appalled. Wilson's experiments involved sentient beings, and despite the clinical euphemisms, it was apparent that all the experiments had ended in the subjects' deaths. Filled with dread as much as the urgent need to know, he called up a visual record attached to ORGANISM 5: COMPLETE PATTERN REPLICATION. Five was the highest number in the series.

What he saw only deepened his fears. Wilson's Organism 5 was vaguely humanoid and its featureless skin was starkly white. As white as that of the albino with Hart's team the night of his escape from the Renraku arcology. Before his eyes, the thing approached and embraced a man strapped to a vertical surface. What he saw next filled him with horror. While he watched, the thing insinuated extrusions into the flesh of its victim, who reacted with excruciating pain. Sam was glad there was no sound on the record. Meanwhile, Organism 5's flesh twisted and molded until it was an exact copy of the man who lay limp in the restraints. Sam retched onto Wilson's floor.

Wilson, through arts arcane and scientific, had created something demonic, a changeling that could steal a person's shape. That was why the albino hadn't left with Hart. It had taken the shape of someone inside the arcology. Renraku harbored a viper that it believed to be a loyal employee. Now he knew why he and Hanae and most of Hart's team had been betrayed to the Tir Tairngire border guards. The mastermind of this plot wanted to be sure no one lived to tell any tales.

Did Drake know that Sam was still alive? If so, he would continue trying to kill him. Perhaps the fiery destruction of the panzer had made Drake's tool Tessien believe that both Sam and Begay had perished in the wreck. Jacqueline had implied as much. Lofwyr's statement that Sam was an "unanticipated player" also confirmed the notion. If Drake believed that Sam was dead, that slim advantage might allow Sam to get to Drake first.

Sam looked down at the mess he had made. He'd never be able to explain it away if he was here when Wilson returned, which could be any minute now. He had to get out, fast. He popped Lofwyr's chip, hoping that the abrupt exit might damage Wilson's precious files. While removing the evidence of his presence, he noticed a few cartridges with the Genomics proprietary seal. He tossed them into his case. Before heading for the door, he cleaned himself off as best he could. If he looked too out of place or hurried too much, he'd never get off the premises.

"Can you tell me where I might find Dr. Wilson?" he asked the secretary.

"He left in such a hurry, Mr. Voss . . . I could call around and find him for you."

"That won't be necessary. I've finished here and left a message for the doctor in his office. It's nothing urgent. No need to disturb him."

Sam walked down the corridor, wishing that he could run all the way to the airstrip. He felt dirty, as though he were walking through a cesspit instead of the shining white walls and spotless floors of Genomics. He wanted to be clean again. Each stop at a security station was an agony as he anticipated an alarm. None came, but he didn't relax again until long after Lofwyr's jet had lifted him into the sky.

"I'm telling you, Crenshaw, I don't like it."

"And
I'm
telling
you
to shut up."

"But it's dangerous out here," Addison whined. "I'd rather be back in my cubicle, decking against the Special Directorate. I know how to handle IC."

The hour was still early and most of the native wildlife hadn't crawled out from whatever smelly holes they hid in during the day, but Addison crowded her as though he feared the dilapidated buildings themselves might try to bite him. She didn't like the Puyallup Barrens any better, but she knew enough not to show fear in the face of a predator. At the very least, there would be several watching from shadowed alleys or darkened, glass-toothed windows. Addison's nervousness could mark them as outsiders, targets. If that triggered an attack, his nearness could hamper her response. She could get hurt.

She backhanded him across the shoulder and widened the distance. He blinked in surprise. "Just shut up. Keep talking and it
will
get dangerous. If this deal goes sour because of you, you can try walking back to the arcology."

"All the way from here?"

"Don't worry. You probably won't make it out of Puyallup."

He scurried to catch up.

One block up, they reached their destination, a dive named Olaf's. The sign buzzed and crackled as the letters still lit struggled to join the already dead "a." Huddled by the door were two chipheads. One mumbled a disjointed litany of the sensations swirling through her dying brain, while the other fumbled through the usual sob-story. Crenshaw hurried past, then had to pull Addison away from the grasping hands of the panhandler.