shadowrun 40 The Burning Time (7 page)

The first person Trouble saw when she came through the door was Hilda, Doc’s combination nurse, receptionist, and bouncer. Hilda knew how to set a broken bone, draw blood, apply a dressing, and dozens of other things Doc needed done around the place. She handled the clinic’s computer files, keeping the records straight (and ensuring certain things were never recorded). Being a troll, Hilda was also more than able to handle anything from a punker whacked out on chips to a dissatisfied customer looking to cause trouble.

At the moment she was changing a dressing on the arm of one of the Bane-Sidhe, a local gang. Trouble knew them well, mostly Irish kids, the children of Irish immigrants like her. The ganger Hilda was treating was an ork, and Trouble wondered if his parents were orks, too. A lot of metahumans had felt distinctly unwelcome in the new "paradise" of the Sidhe, and had emigrated to the UCAS. Two of his chummers stood nearby, watching the whole procedure with bored expressions.

"Hey, Trouble," Hilda said, glancing up briefly. "Have a seat and I’ll be right with you, honey." She finished up with kid in a few minutes, accepted the cred he offered, and sent the three gangers on their way.

"Looks like business is good," Trouble said.

"Always is," Hilda replied with a sigh. "We’d be better off if we didn’t have to waste time patching up the gangers, but their money lets us help other people who don’t have any. You wouldn’t believe some of the strange cases ever since the SURGE started. I just hope it’s not some new disease starting the rounds. Anyway, what can we do for you today, Trouble? Aren’t you feeling well?"

"No, it’s nothing like that," Trouble said. "I just want to talk to Mac if he’s got time."

"Sure thing. You just wait right there." Hilda disappeared into the back of the clinic and returned a few moments later with Dr. MacArthur in tow. With his receding hairline and the deep creases on his face, Doc looked older than his thirty-seven years. He was still quite fit, though, and carried himself like a soldier. He was wearing blood-stained hospital scrubs—apparently "donated" by Boston General, from the stenciling on them—and he gave Trouble a weary smile.

"Why don’t we talk in my office," he said, while Hilda went to her desk and began tapping away at the computer.

Trouble followed Dr. Mac into his office, then perched nervously on the edge of a chair. Dr. Mac leaned back against his desk, looking at her with concern.

"So, what can I do for you?" he asked.

Trouble hesitated, not quite sure how to put it. "I’ve got a medical question for you, hypothetically speaking."

Mac nodded. "Go on."

"How. . .how involved is a sex-change operation?"

Mac’s brow furrowed more deeply. "Female to male?" he asked. Trouble nodded, biting her lower lip a bit.

"Well, it can get pretty involved. Female-to-male changes are more difficult because we have to craft an artificial Y-chromosome for the cloning process. Then there’s growing all the necessary organs, including skin grafts, followed by several surgical procedures and extensive hormone therapy. The whole process can take several months and costs tens of thousands of nuyen. And, of course, it’s still not one hundred percent effective in all cases. I can’t say I get a lot of call for that kind of thing in my practice. Cosmetic work, sure, but not gender reassignment type-stuff."

"I see," Trouble said quietly.

"I know it’s none of my business," he said, "and I’ll understand if you’d rather not say, but can I ask why you want to know?"

"It’s personal, not business," Trouble said.

"All right, then. I withdraw the question. But if there’s anything you want to talk about. . ."

"No, but thanks for the info, Doc," Trouble said, getting to her feet.

"Anytime," he said, moving to open the door for her. "Take care of yourself."

Trouble smiled feebly. "I’ll try."

She said goodbye to Hilda and went back to her car. She sat with her head resting on the steering wheel for a few minutes, thinking about her emotional dilemma. She wasn’t ready to go home, and she knew a place where she could actually do something about how she was feeling.

An hour later, Trouble was sitting at a bar in South Boston, downing the last of her scotch on the rocks. She thunked the tumbler back down onto the bar and gestured for the bartender, rattling the ice in her glass.

"One more," she said, sliding a hardcopy note across the bar. The bartender poured another and slipped the cash into his pocket. Trouble took a sip from her drink, savoring the burn of the liquor down her throat and the feeling of numbness that followed. It was numbness she was looking for, a way to smother all her feelings and make her forget about them, at least for a while.

She was still berating herself for being an idiot. Sure, she’d been attracted to Talon from the first time they’d met, very attracted, in fact. But when she found out that nothing could ever come of it, she had tried to put her romantic feelings aside so they could be just friends.

That had turned out to be a lot harder than she’d imagined, especially with the two of them working together all the time. Still, she thought she’d been handling it well enough. Then Talon thought he saw the ghost of the long-dead love of his life. Was that possible?

Hell, she told herself, if the other magical stuff Talon could do was possible, why not that? After all, he was a wizard. Universities taught courses in applied magic, her parents had left an Ireland ruled by elves, and the bartender serving her looked like something out of a fairy story to scare little kids. If she could accept all that, why not ghosts?

The answer was obvious. It was because of the identity of this particular ghost and the feelings it had stirred up in Talon, that’s why. He was hurting; anyone could see that. She knew that Talon thought he’d finally laid the pain of his grief to rest, but did you ever really get over losing someone you love so much?

She looked into her glass and swirled the scotch around the ice cubes. Maybe because she never saw Talon get serious with anyone else, she’d let herself indulge the possibility that one day he’d come around and see what was right there in front of him. Now his lover was back from the dead.

God, I’m jealous of a ghost, she thought bitterly. How pitiful is that? She couldn’t believe she’d gone to Dr. Mac to inquire about changing into someone Talon could love the way she loved him. The whole thing was insane. She didn’t want to be a man, but Talon would never want her as a woman. . .

"Frag him," she muttered, taking a long swig of her scotch. Frag him for being so nice, so oblivious, and so damned unavailable. She set the glass back down on the bar, wishing she had something to hit.

"Ariel?" someone said from behind her, and she immediately recognized both the voice and the accent.

She froze for a second, then turned around slowly. Now she was the one who was seeing ghosts.

"Ian?" she murmured.

Standing there was Ian O’Donnel, looking for all the world almost unchanged since she’d last seen him ten years ago. Though he had to be over forty, he looked as fit as a much younger man. His hair was the same reddish brown, but with a bit more gray than Trouble remembered. He had the same warm smile and neatly trimmed beard, and he still dressed more like he belonged in the Old West than in twenty-first century Boston. Tonight he wore battered jeans, a pullover shirt, military-style boots, and a long duster that showed telltale signs of armor beneath.

"Ariel Tyson, as I live and breathe," he said. He hadn’t lost his Irish brogue or the sparkle in his eyes that she’d always found so attractive.

"Ian, what are you doing here?"

"Well, it’s a semi-free country," he said, "and I came in for a drink. May I?" He gestured toward the stool next to her and, when Trouble nodded, he sat down, resting his elbows on the bar.

"It looks like you’re ahead of me," he said, indicating her empty glass. He turned to the bartender. "Scotch neat, and another for the lady."

When their drinks arrived, Ian raised his glass. "Here’s to old times," he said, tapping his glass against hers.

"Funny you should say that," Trouble said. "I was just talking about you to someone."

"A boyfriend?" he asked, arching one eyebrow.

Ariel couldn’t help but chuckle. "No." She cast her eyes downward. "Just a friend."

"And did you tell your friend how much it broke my heart to see you go?"

"Ian, I—"

He laid a hand over hers. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just. . .it’s been such a long time and. . .well, I never stopped thinking about you, love."

"Are you saying there’s no lady in Ian O’Donnel’s life these days?"

Ian shrugged, then took a sip of scotch. He set the glass down and stared into it for a moment.

"There aren’t many ladies who can deal with the likes of me, Ariel. In fact, I can only think of one." He looked into Trouble’s eyes and smiled.

"Flatterer," she said.

"It’s only the truth. Odd, though, us running into each other after all these years. I was just thinking about you earlier today, wondering what you were about, and now here you are."

Trouble set her glass on the bar. "I really should go," she said. This was making her nervous.

Ian didn’t let go of her hand. "I wish you wouldn’t. Can’t you stay a while? I mean, what’s so important that you can’t spend some time with an old friend?"

She smiled. He was right. Nothing she had to do was urgent. Her research could wait for a few hours, and no one would be missing her tonight.

"All right, Ian," she said. "Why not?" Trouble didn’t know whether it was the scotch making her feel so warm and comfortable or Ian’s presence and his tender smile.

Right then, she didn’t much care.

CHAPTER NINE

The next day, Talon cruised up to the Avalon on Aracos. Most of Landsdown Street was still asleep. It wouldn’t wake up again until tonight when the club-goers would line the streets, everyone trying to get into the trendiest and most popular clubs. This afternoon, the street was empty except for people on their way to somewhere else and the squatters sleeping in doorways until someone chased them away.

Talon hopped off Aracos, and the sleek motorcycle shimmered and vanished into the air. Aracos was still there, however, invisible and intangible to the physical world, in case should Talon need him.

"This operating by day thing is almost becoming a habit," Aracos said into Talon’s mind. "Are you giving up being nocturnal?"

"Not as long as I’m in this business," Talon thought back. "But it’s safer for the team to meet when the club is closed, and we’ve got some planning to do. Besides, you don’t sleep."

"True," the spirit said, "but I find this place much more interesting at night."

"Much easier to get a few drinks, you mean."

"That, too."

Talon went in through the Avalon’s back door. Most of the staff knew that Talon was a shadowrunner, and a mage, which improved his status in their eyes. The fact that he tended to be somewhat mysterious about his abilities and that he was known to have a familiar spirit following him around didn’t hurt, either.

He took the stairs to Boom’s office. At the top, Aracos spoke again in his mind. "All clear, boss."

Aracos always went ahead of Talon to make sure everything was safe. Even in a place Talon considered his second home, it was wiser not to take chances, not in his business. Such caution had saved his life on a number of occasions. He rapped twice on the door to Boom’s office, then paused and rapped again. A moment later, Val opened the door and let him in.

Boom was sitting behind his massive desk. He was talking to Hammer while giving the occasional glance at the data scrolling across the display built into the translucent desktop. Hammer was sitting in a chair flanking the desk, dressed in loose khaki pants and a close-fitting T-shirt of ballistic cloth. His pistol was tucked under his arm in its shoulder rig, and his leather jacket was draped over the back of the chair. Not visible was the commando knife he kept strapped to one ankle inside the beat-up combat boots he always wore.

Val closed the door and went back to the couch against the wall. She, too, was dressed for action in black jeans, a cropped T-shirt, and boots. Her own beat-up jacket was tossed over one arm of the couch.

Talon glanced around the room. "Where’s Trouble?"

Val and Hammer both shrugged as Boom waved Talon to one of the other chairs. "She’s not here yet," he said. "She called a little while ago to say she got the message but that she’d be a few minutes late."

Talon nodded and dropped into a chair. He was curious, though. It wasn’t like Trouble to be late, but he didn’t press Boom for details. If the troll didn’t want to say more, then it was none of Talon’s business.

"So," he said, not wasting time, "we got a bite?"

Boom grinned and nodded. "Last night."

"Well, that didn’t take long," Hammer said.

"What did you expect?" Val asked. "This suit has definitely got it bad. When you’re that hooked on sims, you can’t go for more than a few hours without one."

Talon knew that Val spoke from personal experience. She’d been heavily into simsense as a kid. It was only the equally addictive rush of rigging that let her overcome her dependence on them. Talon often though he might have gotten hooked, too, if he’d had the nuyen for a datajack back when his magic was first developing. Anything could have happened if Jase hadn’t found him and taught him that he wasn’t going mad and not to be afraid of who and what he was.

"Talon, you still here?" Boom said, bringing Talon’s attention back to the conversation at hand.

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry."

"Thought you’d gone out-of-body on us or something."

Talon laughed. "Just thinking. Now, what were you saying?"

The troll raised an eyebrow. "I told him I wasn’t sure I could get in touch with you, but that I’d try my best and get back to him."

"And you left him hanging?" Hammer asked. "What if he decides to go to somebody else?"

Boom shook his head. "He won’t. First off, this guy knows zero about getting the hardcore sims. He only found us because we gave him a trail to follow. He’s not likely to be thinking real straight without his daily fix, and he’s scared. He’s afraid of getting caught doing something bad, and the more people he talks to, the more chance of that happening. No, it’ll be a while before he gets desperate enough to try to track down another supplier. Waiting will make him that much more eager to get what we’ve got, and that much more likely to use it once he does get it."