Anthology - SHADOWRUN - Spells and Chrome

Mamba jerked her head. "You talk to him." She'd replaced her AR glasses and breather, part of her oyibos disguise that would prove valuable on the island enclave. For once, the damn disguise would come in useful: as a foreigner, she'd be able to get past the guards with few questions. Unfortunately, the Eko bridge was a heavy spam site. Clusters of garish ads-everything from bridgeside vendors selling palm wine to whores advertising their services-cluttering her view.

Pharisee made a rude noise. "What am I supposed to tell him?"

"Tell him the job's screwed six ways to hell, that asshole Nubian stole the artifacts, and there's no fucking way we can rob Lekan's mansion with just the two of us. And I want my face back."

Mamba heard Pharisee swear in Arabic, then suddenly a connection was opened in Mamba's AR view, the Johnson's very annoyed icon staring at her in the AR window. Behind the translucent man, Mamba saw the packed bridge and the crowds of Lagosians. Pharisee had done some techno thing to get all the spam to drop out of sight.

"Damn it, Pharisee," Mamba muttered, as the AR image sprung to life in her view. "Stop hacking my 'link."

"Buy a better firewall," Pharisee replied. Mamba snorted. "Sweet goddess, was that a laugh?" Pharisee asked.

"Black Mamba," Mr. Johnson's icon said. "I've been waiting for your report."

"Well, fu-" Mamba felt Pharisee jab her in the ribs. She cleared her throat. "We've continued onto Lagos to finish the job, sir. I should have more to report later."

"And the artifacts? My gift to the Yoruba king, to gain me admittance to his auction next month? You have them?"

"Ah," Mamba stared straight through the translucent icon, to the gleaming highrises of Lagos Island. The land of promise for much of West Africa. "Unfortunately, we lost the trail on the artifacts. We're exploring other options."

"In other words, after you'd stolen them, someone else knocked you out, took the artifacts, and left you high-and-dry in the middle of the desert," Pharisee interjected. "You want to tell him how I came to the rescue when those Apep goons realized you weren't Dr. Madeira?"

Mamba gritted her teeth.

"Black Mamba, your reputation is excellent. I'd hate to find my trust in your abilities unwarranted," Mr. Johnson replied. The warning was clear. In the shadows, you lived and died by your reputation.

"Understood," Mamba replied. Mr. Johnson cut the connection. Mamba's AR view was once again flooded with spam.

As they moved slowly through the traffic, Pharisee asked, "So, do you have a plan? Or are we really screwed?"

"Six ways to hell," Mamba muttered. • • •

She left Pharisee at a tiny park on the exclusive Victoria Island. The Egyptian woman would be safe enough there. Polite and well-armed guards patrolled the island enclave, and anyone bothering an oyibos woman would find themselves facing a squad of security goons. No one would bother her as she did her techno thing and hacked into the mansion of the Yoruba "ambassador" to Lagos. The very foreignness which made the women so vulnerable in the feral slums of mainland Lagos was a magic charm here. Even the air was cleaner, the streets made of well maintained pavement, the buildings sparkling with thousands of reinforced-glass windows.

A completely different world.

The mansion was in the quiet suburban area of Victoria Island. Masses of well-tended, flowering vines grew on every wall lining the streets in the upscale neighborhood, scenting the hot air with a sweet, floral fragrance that covered the stench of the city beyond. Vehicle traffic was light and orderly, pedestrian traffic heavier, but just as polite as they walked down sidewalks shaded by trees and vine-covered walls. The walls all stood two stories tall, pristine white showing beneath the thick greenery. Wide iron gates forged in fanciful designs were guarded by heavily armed men, sweat rolling down their impassive faces as they stood statue-still in the hot December sun, unaugmented eyes hidden by dark glasses. No AK-97s here; those were the guns of the slums, the gangers and the common masses. These guards-and by proxy, their masters-played a blatant game of one-upmanship. If one house was guarded by men with chromed Colt Cobra TZ-118 submachine guns, their neighbor would have upgraded HK Urban Combats with pearl handles and gold-alloy chasing. It was an arms race for the pampered wealthy, an amusing game, nothing more.

Black Mamba thought it was sickening.

The guards ignored her as she leisurely walked down the clean-swept sidewalks, passing within arms' reach of them. She wore the perfect camouflage for the island enclave: an embedded RFID chip that proclaimed her ID, a commlink broadcasting a valid SIN-even if it wasn't hers-and skin dyed chestnut, with a face shaped to mimic Sioux heritage. Had she looked like herself, they'd have watched her behind those dark glasses, and no doubt one or two island guards would have followed her as she meandered along the streets, ready to hassle her if she paused too long in any one spot.

Her AR glasses served a dual purpose, blocking the harsh sun while they displayed images. The map she'd bought for a thousand naira from a Festac Town hacker was displayed in her lower view, a birds-eye view of the streets she was navigating. There were lots of maps of Victoria Island available to purchase legally, but none of them listed who lived in each walled-off mansion. And none of them mentioned that Olabode Lekan lived behind the vine-covered walls of 12 Adua Street.

I'm in the system, Pharisee messaged Mamba, the text scrolling across her AR view. Cameras embedded in the walls. I can see you now. You forgot to brush your hair, by the way.

Mamba scowled, but ran a hand through the tangles. Luckily, Dr. Madeira had chosen a very short cut for her silky, black hair.

Six guards stood outside the wrought-iron gate at 12 Adua Street, each holding an Ares HVAR with military precision. The gate itself had a clever arrangement of garden-soil filled boxes attached to its base, supporting verdant twining vines, heavy with scarlet flowers, on the gate itself. It was an attractive way to block the only view into the inner courtyard from the street.

Mamba gritted her teeth and continued to walk down the street, pretending to admire the colorful flowers draping the walls. A flock of bright mini-parrots started to squawk in a tree two houses down from Lekan's mansion. Mamba paused beside the tree, pretending to take a video of the birds with her commlink. Surreptitiously, she continued to scan Lekan's walls, looking for a weakness.

Pharisee transmitted the inner view of the courtyard and mansion. Mamba saw a dozen more guards standing at attention inside the gates.

Looks impossible, the technomancer texted. Sensors in every wall. No drones, but I see where they've got some caged beasties. Probably use them to patrol at night.

"Shit," Mamba muttered, staring back at the place. Olabode Lekan had the invitations to the auction in his mansion; she'd bought that information dearly enough. Goddamned physical invitations. Without the two ancient, sacrificial knives to buy his goodwill, they'd have to steal an invitation for their employer. Mamba analyzed the data Pharisee was sending her while she inspected the neighborhood, trying to find the weak point. She didn't see one.

If she hadn't had been watching so closely, she'd have missed the man standing a block down, watching the same gates. As it was, her gaze passed over him once before snapping back.

His face was mostly hidden behind oversized black glasses and a fashionable breather, but she recognized him from the cocky way he stood, the breadth of his shoulders under a bright red shirt. When he turned his head, the line of his skull, under the tightly braided rows of black hair, triggered her memory.