Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

"Probably not," Magnusson replied. "Why can't they track him down through his implants? Aren't they online?"

Mute and 8-Ball glanced at each other, and the dwarf grimaced. "All his cyberware has a stealth mode-an override that prevents anyone hacking into any of it and taking control, or even locating it. The Navy won't tell us anything more'n that, neither will SK, but Zurich's heard that he can take himself offline any time he's conscious. That way, no one can find him or send him false data when he's doing anything covert…but if he's wounded and blacks out, the override switches off, and the Navy can find him and bring him back in."

"What if he's asleep?"

"I'm not sure… but if he sleeps somewhere which is well enough insulated, he should be okay. Like in a Faraday cage."

"Or underwater," added Mute.

"And?" asked Magnusson, sensing that there was still more they weren't telling him.

8-Ball hesitated. "The Navy thinks the implants have made him paranoid and given him a hair trigger-a worse one than he had before. And the same Multi-6 he used to kill his wife was used to kill Picket, night before last."

"Picket?"

"The fence," explained Mute. "George White, Western War Surplus. Bought and sold a lot of guns, and other gear. You never dealt with him?"

"No," said the magician, coldly. "I never needed money that badly. Or guns. And I still don't. So unless you can give me a better reason than that, count me out."

"Oh, come on, Maggie," said 8-Ball, lightly. "It's never been just about the nuyen. It'll be fun."

"I helped defend the Crypt because of my oath to the coven," said Magnusson, "and I'd do it again, if necessary. But I won't do wetwork; I'm not a hired assassin." The kettle boiled, and switched itself off. He grabbed three mugs from hooks above the stove, slammed them down on the counter. "Besides, the Navy will be looking for him, so will SK, and Knight Errant… and from the sound of it, so will other shadowrunners. And the first two of those will have material links for him, even if the others don't, and wagemages, and other resources. So what makes you think you can get there first?"

"He's already managed to evade them for five days," Mute replied. "I don't know enough about magic to know exactly how, but as Ball said, he's trained in SERE-and nowadays, that includes evading an astral search as well as an electronic or visual one."

"And he trained alongside at least some of the people who'll be looking for him," said the dwarf, nodding. "He'll be expecting the Navy, and probably the SKs, and maybe even Lone Star… but he won't be expecting us.

"The Navy seems to think he's hiding somewhere away from people, either in the water or close to it-somewhere with enough life to mask his aura.. Saeder-Krupp think he's left the UCAS completely, maybe with the help of some of his old shipmates, which is why they've called in runners. If he did leave, though, he must've stowed away or paid a people smuggler, because he's too easily recognized to have caught a passenger flight. And if he's still in town, well, we know the hiding places here better than anyone in SK or the Navy. But it'd speed things up if someone could summon up a few smart watcher spirits…besides, the Knight Errant forensic mage who's working the case is a former student of yours. Marcus Shawn."

The magician handed Mute her mug of tea, and spooned sugar into his own. "What makes you think Marcus is going to tell me anything that isn't on the record?"

"Because he wants to find Picket's killer," said Mute quietly. "And he knows you can help."

Magnusson sipped at his tea. "Okay," he said. "I'll call him. But that's all. I'm not going to kill, or run a greater than usual risk of being killed, just for money. I have too much other work to do." • • •

The forensic report from Marcus Shawn arrived in Magnusson's commlink's inbox while he was teaching his three o'clock class in basic conjuring. He glanced at it when he returned to his office before forwarding it to Mute and diving into a thesis on the role of different industrial pollutants on the formation of toxic water spirits. He was staring at a table of statistics when Reyes knocked on his door, but his pleasure at being interrupted was short-lived. "What's wrong?"

"I can't reach Paul. He's not answered his commlink all morning. Have you heard from him?"

"No. Could he have forgotten to recharge the battery?" asked Magnusson, who knew all too well how academics could lose track of time when obsessed with their research.

"Maybe. But I sent a watcher out to the island to find him. It couldn't."

"Isn't he in a hide?"

"Yes, but the watcher knows where it is. He said he wasn't there. He might be out in the field, but he should have taken his comm with him."

"The islands are far enough away that a watcher wouldn't have much time to do a search if he wasn't in the hide," the professor pointed out. "Especially if he was looking on one of the other islands. Or he might be in the sub."

"Possibly," she said, uncertainly. "I'll keep trying. Thanks."

It was raining again when Jimmy Kaminsky returned to his tiny apartment after the end of his shift. The sunlight had been almost completely blotted out by storm clouds, and when he switched on the low-watt light and saw the dark-skinned woman sitting on his sofa-bed, his first thought was that he was hallucinating in his eagerness to get to his porn collection. An instant later, he recognized her, and his spirits deflated like a bullet-riddled airship. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, wishing he hadn't shut the door behind him.

Mute glanced around the room, and her nose wrinkled. "Just visiting, fortunately. I need some information."

"Blow me."

She brought her hand out from behind a cushion and pointed a slivergun at his chest. "Would you care to rephrase that?"

Kaminksy closed his eyes. "I don't know anything."

"George White, also known as Picket. Murdered in his shop, Western War Surplus, on Monday night."

"You don't think I had anything to do with that, do you? I hardly knew the guy!"

"How did you know him? Through the Moon Traps?"

The survivalist hesitated, then nodded. "He came along to meetings sometimes. He sold us stuff cheap, that's all."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Survival gear. MREs, camo, weapons, stuff for our shelters…"

"Did he have a shelter of his own?"

"Apart from his shop? I don't think so."

"Did he know about anyone else's?"

Kaminsky bit his lip. "You think we published a guidebook or something? He might have known about a few, though we were only supposed to know the exact locations of three, in case one of us was captured and talked."

Mute managed not to smile. "What about Lucas Fletcher?"

"Doesn't ring any bells," said Kaminsky, uneasily.

"Think. He's a Navy Seal, if that helps." She reached into her pocket and drew out a photographic print of Fletcher pre-surgery, which she threw like a shuriken. Kaminsky ducked, then cautiously bent down to pick it up.

"Nope," he said, after a moment's thought. "But we weren't the only ones who did business with Picket. He had friends in the military, too-that's how he got a lot of his stuff."

"Would they have known he was in the club?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Why?"

"Knight Errant thinks he killed Picket. He may have taken some stuff from the shop-ammo, weapons, survival gear-but they don't know how much. Did Picket have anything of value there?"

"Doubt it. Anything he could sell, he did, soon as he could find a buyer."

"Would he have sold a list of names and addresses? Fallout shelters, places to hide?"

"He might have," Kaminsky admitted. "He liked money. But I dunno."

"Think," said Mute, firmly, looking at him along the gunsight. "You're a survivalist, aren't you? Think of this as improving your chances of survival." • • •