Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

Solidly between the very clean girl and her only chance to escape, I lowered my gun. I wasn't quite trusting enough to put it away, but muzzle to the ground was a pretty universal sign of nonaggression. I let her know I knew where she was by pointing my face directly at her hiding place.

The breathing stopped.

"Come on out," I said, putting no power behind the words. Just basic, civil communication. "I don't intend to harm you."

I stood silent through the long pause that followed.

Finally the girl shape rose from behind a busted crate of junk beside an overflowing dust bin. She stood, not moving, until I holstered my Manhunter. Then she stepped hesitantly into the open.

I saw immediately why she had a human-ish scent-one of the few cases of sight trumping scent. She was mid-Expression.

Sometimes when an ork and a human got together a kid resulted. If dad was human and mom an ork, she'd have a litter of orks with maybe a human thrown in. If dad was the ork and mom human, the kid looked human until puberty. Then it was a fifty-fifty crap shoot; emphasis on the crap. At an age when most humans were getting sweaty-palmed over the idea of their first date, hormones hit the poor kid with seventy-two hours of metamorphing hell.

By the time the process was fully done, there'd be no sign she'd ever been human. But mid-process…

Mid-process she should be writhing in ungodly agony as her bones grew and shifted and her muscle mass doubled. I caught another whiff of the acrid beneath the little-girl-changing scent and the penny dropped. She was sweating out some expensive pain killers. Real high-end stuff if it was keeping her upright and scream free.

I could see my little ex-rich girl's Afro-human features had once been aristocratically sharp, but now her high cheekbones were spreading, flattening as her face became broader. Her tusks were barely big enough to protrude, but her cheerfully bright jumpsuit was stretched taut across her bulking form.

A cloud of pubescent hormones and pheromones washed over me. I twitched as the scent registered. The girl caught the motion and stopped, covering her mouth-her new tusks-with one hand. I knew Dog was amused at my reaction, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of looking in his direction.

"It's all right," I said, knowing how stupid that had to sound. "You surprised me is all."

She didn't react. She just stood with her wide eyes staring at me over her concealing hand, blank with fear. And/or expensive pain killers.

Her jumpsuit was expensive-some sort of upscale school uniform with all the identifying logos cut off. Neatly, like whoever had dumped her had cared that her clothes kept her warm. Or maybe they were just thinking about appearances. The hand not covering her mouth held the strap of a kid's shoulder bag blazoned with advertising that declared her loyalty to a half-dozen trendy products. Among other things, she was a fan/member of Gang Life! L.A.'s most popular teen P2.0 network! I wondered if she was plugged into the network now, if anyone was seeing what her life had become. I doubted it. Beautiful people were not interested in the way real life could screw you over.

The bag was nearly empty, but had once been stuffed with what smelled like high protein soy bars, and toiletry articles-including that expensively effective body wash. The fact that she had such a carefully packed bag told me whoever'd dumped her hadn't wanted her to suffer. Too bad they hadn't wanted her at all. What kind of person abandoned an innocent kid who'd never been on her own to the sprawl beyond the refugee camps and packed her a lunch?

Family. Nothing but. From the gilded enclave of oh-so-human perfection I was working for.

"My name is Bastion," I said, hoping the silence hadn't stretched too long. "What's yours?"

"Monica," she said, moving her hand just enough to speak. "Monica Pem-"

Her face crumpled. The name she'd been commanded to never say again got lost in a despairing wail.

I had my arms around her before I thought about it. Pembroke. This was the "missing" daughter of Julius vanVijrk's dear friends. Lost to the orks. For a long count I just held her, letting her sob her heart out against my still damp chest while I stared into the now natural dark of the alley and weighed options. • • •

"What the vut?"

Monica tried to bury herself in my chest-the guttural challenge instantly transmogrifying her wracking sobs into a terrified tremble that threatened to rattle my teeth.

I shifted my weight, shielding the kid with my body before looking over my shoulder.

The broad street was still empty, but now a knot of three ork males stood dead center in the only way out of the alley. My nose belatedly warned of a distant fourth I couldn't see. Ignoring him, I focused on the more immediate threat.

My canine nose told me two of the three were a sibling set, and all of them about Monica's age-but full-blooded orks, which meant near-adults with twice her height and three times her mass. I caught the whiff of a pricy floral cologne that had been hip in the clubs around Lacey Park about eight months back, but there was nothing effeminate about their visage. They were dressed for the street-waterproof boots, synthleather thick enough to be body armor and improvised clubs.

I smelled machine oil, gunpowder, and brass-at least two slug throwers-and altered my assessment of the tactical situation accordingly. Screwed pretty well covered it.

"Cruising for some local exotic?" Demanded the ork who was not a brother. "Humanis get hard for a ken joytoy?"

For nearly three tenths of a second I considered explaining I'd been down here on legitimate business and the girl had found me, but common sense kicked in. A, I wasn't all that sure my business was legit, and two, these jokers didn't give a damn. Anything I said would be shpita.

If it came to a firefight I'd never get clear of the girl in my arms fast enough to get off a shot. Worse, ork punks habitually blended maximum firepower with minimum accuracy. From the looks of things, it was a smart money bet any rescue attempt these warrior wannabes launched would kill Monica.

Don't let the urgent distract from the essential.

I filed that bit of philosophical flotsam where it belonged and kept my gaze level-trying for something between "not scared" and "not confrontational"-while I worked on the problem.

Conventional street wisdom has it that if you kept your mien cool and didn't look like you're looking for trouble, four out of five times you can avoid a fight. Standing in a blind alley facing three angry-looking orks with my arms around one of their girls, I didn't think my odds were quite that good, but I gave it my best.

My three dance partners spread out, positioning to keep me the center of attention. The diverging smells of gunpowder told me right and left carried the guns while the fine mineral oil and steel straight ahead told me middle man favored a blade. Ork tradition would dictate a combat axe, but that would have been redundant, given his twisted steel club. From the scent of sandalwood and the cut of his long coat, I was betting katana.

Keeping all three in my gaze was a trick, but I managed without nervous head jerks.

Visually occupied, I set my canine ears and nose to sweeping the street. I still hadn't pegged where the fourth strain of eau d'ork originated and I strongly suspected that bit of information was vital. I had a sense the real danger was watching and waiting while these picadors got the measure of the gaijin.

In my arms, Monica's seismic shudders had subsided to a tremble. I hoped that indicated she was getting a grip, but under the circumstances exhaustion was the more likely option.

"Ujnort vut." The third ork, the one to my left, revealed himself as a minimalist. Also not much of a curser if he thought "non-ork shit" was a cutting remark.