Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

Professor Magnusson stifled a yawn as he read through another freshman paper on magical theory. This one was a comparison of Paracelsus's description of undina in the Philosophia magna and Guazzo's classification of female water demons from the Compendium Maleficarum with the studies of water elementals and sea spirits by 21st century magicians. The writer, a pre-law student, had not the faintest spark of magical ability, but Magnusson suspected that if he didn't learn to summarize more concisely, he would be able to send judges and juries to sleep as effectively as if he'd used a stunball.

He was wondering how to put this politely-or at least, politely enough that he wouldn't be sued-when he heard a knock on the door. "It's open," he said, not at all unhappy at the interruption. He smiled, and closed the computer file as he saw Kenda Reyes walk in. Though her black hair, dark eyes and bronzed complexion revealed her Sioux ancestry, her presence always seemed to brighten any room. Maybe it was her powerful aura leaking through into the normal visual spectrum-or maybe, he admitted to himself, it's just my imagination. No matter. "Hi," he said, leaning back in his chair.

"Hi," she replied, less cheerfully.

"Problems?"

"I was wondering if you had any news on my funding application."

Magnusson's smile faded slightly. "I'm afraid not, but unofficially, I don't think they're going to grant you another extension. The dean says the faculty simply doesn't have the money."

"We don't need much."

"There are also other people who want to use the submarine. But I think the real problem is the liability. Some of the creatures you're looking at can be dangerous, and if anything goes wrong, it's not going to be easy getting someone out there to help you."

"Or cheap."

"True," he admitted. "Are you still trying for corporate sponsorship?"

Reyes shook her head. "Gaeatronics are the only ones who've shown any interest, and they have a backlog of applications. It could take years. If we can't survey the islands all year round, how are we going to find out about migratory species that visit them?"

Her professor shrugged. He hated to disappoint Reyes, a Sea totem shaman of considerable talent-but he also knew that the paranormal ecology of the San Juan Islands, her current obsession, wasn't considered a particularly high priority by either the School of Magic or the College of Ocean and Fishery Sciences. It didn't help that their respective deans loathed each other, and had pet research projects of their own. "Paul's out there now, isn't he?"

"Yes, on Battleship Island. We can do without the sub if we have to, but we'd still need money for food."

"I'll do what I can. Unfortunately, they don't allow influence or truth spells at faculty meetings."

Reyes smiled. "Thanks. I'll call Paul and let him know." • • •

Marcus Shawn looked down at the body behind the counter, hoping to assense some clue that would lead back to the fence's murder. "George White, also known as Picket," intoned the homicide detective. "Small time fence, bought and sold a lot of guns. No great loss: he screwed up a lot of cases for us."

"How?" Shawn asked her, without much interest.

"One gun he bought and sold was used in three murders by three different owners. You can imagine how hard that made getting a conviction for any of them. And, of course, even when we persuaded Picket that it was in his interest to talk, his recordkeeping wasn't what you'd call helpful."

Shawn, one of Knight Errant's most gifted forensic mages, looked around the store. "So not much chance of telling what's been taken?"

"Fuck-all, I think," said the detective. "He probably hasn't done a stocktake since he bought the place, and if there is an inventory on his system, it's going to be cased in enough ice to sink the Titanic. Same with anything from the security cameras. We'll let the hackers have a go at it, but I don't see it as a high priority. Any idea of the time of death?"

"There's no aura, and rigor has well and truly set in, so at least twelve hours. No insect activity, though, so it probably happened after sunset. It looks as though the shop was still open when it happened, so probably before eleven last night…" He opened his case and removed a rectal thermometer. "I can give you a better estimate in a minute, but I won't know for sure until we get him back to the lab."

"It started pissing down sometime after four," she reminded him, "and didn't let up much until sunrise. Visibility less than a meter. If it happened after that, I don't think we can expect much help from witnesses. Not unless they could breathe water." • • •

Magnusson, clad in an old bathrobe, walked into his combined kitchen and alchemy lab and did a double-take when he saw an attractive leather-clad woman and bald black dwarf sitting at the breakfast bar. Mute smiled slightly at his expression. "Sorry," she said. "I knocked, but no one answered, so I let myself in."

The mage bit back a testy reply: Mute, he knew well, was an expert at not making any noise, and at getting into places that were supposed to be off-limits. "What's up?" he asked.

"We have a job," said the dwarf, "and we'd like some magical back-up."

Magnusson sighed as he filled the kettle. "I'm flattered, but I haven't been on a shadowrun in years-decades, even. Get someone younger." He glanced at Mute. "Where's that leopard shaman girlfriend of yours?"

"Denver. And she's not as good as you-well, not at this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing? Do you want tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee, thanks," said 8-Ball. "The job's… well, it's sort of an extraction, except that we have to find him first, which is why I thought you could help. Problem is, he's cybered to the max and possibly beyond, and he's very good at hiding. One of the top scorers in Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training."

Magnusson leaned back against the kitchen counter. "Who is he?"

"His name is Lucas Fletcher, but his friends call him Thresher," 8-Ball answered. "He's a former Navy SEAL who volunteered to test out new Saeder-Krupp military-grade biotech and cyberware, something called Project Ultramarine. Among other things, they gave him gills, more durable than the old OXSYS implants, and cyberlegs with waterjet engines in the shins."

The professor closed his eyes. "What else?"

"Some new form of specially streamlined orthoskin. Enhanced senses, to cope with the underwater environment-sonar, thermographic vision, that sort of thing. Retractable fins. And a lot of other military grade implants-wired reflexes, adrenaline pump, digestive expansion, synthacardium, muscle mods, boosters, compensators, and possibly some headware as well. Zurich knows more about it than I do, and he's trying to see what else he can dig up."

"What went wrong?"

"What?"

"Why is Fletcher hiding?"

"He killed his wife and his lieutenant, then ran," said the dwarf. "NCIS isn't being all that helpful when it comes to details, but they've confirmed that both victims were found in the bedroom of Fletcher's house. It looks as though the wife and the lieutenant were having an affair, and the lieutenant may even have tricked Fletcher into 'volunteering' for Ultramarine just to get him out of the way for a while. Whether that's true or not, it's pretty clear that it was Fletcher who shot them: their forensics matched the rifling marks to a Multi-6 he owned. The gun safe is empty, and that had a print scanner maglock. Then he disappeared.

"They found his car in the parking lot in Gig Harbor, and they think he stole a boat there, an old Aztech Nightrunner. Disabled the RFIDs, of course, and it hasn't turned up yet.

"The navy wants him back, even though they think he's gone rogue, and so does SK, but he's been missing for nearly a week now and word has gotten out. SK is offering a reward: sixty thou, half in nuyen, half in shares. Are you in?"