Anthology: SHADOWRUN: Spells and Chrome

She had to get out, fast. No telling when that thing would come after her. Yet she had this feeling Daniel had one more trick up his sleeve…

Then she saw the sleds she and Lee had tethered to the crater's rim what seemed years ago.

Please. Swimming to one sled, she punched the starter. Nothing. Not even a click. The battery was dead. Nonononono… Seconds ticking away… She was almost afraid to try the second sled. Jabbed the start button and listened to a whole bunch of nothing.

No, no, damn you!

Desperate, kicking at the sleds, she pivoted, pulled water. Saw the sharks whirling high above.

Oh shit. She'd forgotten about them. She watched as they knotted, bunched and then, as one, headed straight for her. Well, hell, it didn't matter; she couldn't afford to pussyfoot around. If they came after her, they came. She probably wasn't going to make it anyway, no matter what.

She swam, kicking hard, pulling as fast as she could. She shot out of the crater and now she was passing the sharks, swimming for all she was worth.

The sharks changed course, and closed.

Her heart crowded into her mouth, and she could only watch as the sharks swirled around, bottling her up, getting closer, so close she could see the jostling of spiky teeth. Close enough that she saw the roll of their dead eyes: doll's eyes, eyes that were black and flat with absolutely no whites. Close enough that, now, they bumped her, bottled her up, and when she kicked, she actually hit one with her fin. Recoiling, she almost screamed, remembered the regulator, pushed the scream back into her chest. Breathless with fear and exhaustion, she looked down-

And saw the ocean move. Felt the rip of an explosion sear her mind, her heart-and she knew: Daniel was dead. Truly, completely, irrevocably.

No. Blinking against the salt sting of the water, she tried to focus-and then a tidal wave of fresh terror roared over her.

Because the ocean was still moving. Right. For. Her. • • •

Something coming: huge, a dark benthic blue, as if the ocean floor were levitating…

And that's when she felt something else: a sudden rush of heat at her throat. Her skin prickled and she thought: Necklace…the tooth…

The massive shape cohered, pulling together like something woven from mist and nightmares-and became a megalodon.

Oh my God. The beast was enormous, a good sixteen, seventeen meters, maybe twenty. It was headed straight for her, its huge dorsal fin scything the water. Its mouth unhinged and she saw the maw bristling with teeth, and something went a little loose in her mind.

I'm not seeing this. She watched it come, helpless as a bug hanging in a spider's web. When the creature was twenty yards away, the school of sharks hemming her in place splintered, each animal veering off to make way. The megalodon slid beneath, actually bumped up against her. Its dorsal fin glided past, and-almost as if in a dream-she hooked her hand round the fin.

And the beast climbed. Its tail swept the water in powerful, even strokes, and she let the animal pull her. The water rushed past; its color began to lighten, and she looked up, expecting to see the bail-out tank-and did: hanging exactly where she and Daniel had left it.

But she also saw something else that made her blood chill.

Hovering in the water was the glowing imago of a man: very old, almost wizened, with a flow of snowy-white beard and intense, completely black eyes rimmed with no white whatsoever. A shark's eyes.

No. Her thoughts were panicky. No, I'm not seeing this; I'm a mundane…

A small voice, one she recognized as her own, sounded in her mind: Yeah, right. Sweetheart, you got yourself a magic tooth with a heap of mojo and you've hitched a ride on a megalodon…

The old man studied her carefully, closely, and she had the sense he was memorizing every detail. They stared at one another: she on the back of this great beast, and he nothing more substantial than a dream. Then he-his projection-pulled apart in a sudden ripple, and vanished.

And she thought: Rebbe…

Coming after her? She sensed that might be right. So she would have to find a way to disappear. Back into the valley for a while. Then…?

That small voice again: Sure, you can hide. You can run. But remember: That old asshole sent Daniel on a suicide mission. Repair, my eye. Blow yourself into little teeny, tiny pieces just like Humpty Dumpty is more like it. But that rip is still there; those shedim are there and that old fart's got to be involved. Now, you gonna let that stand?

Somehow, the megalodon knew to slow at the bail-out tank, and she wondered if maybe it was simply attuned to her needs, or could there be something else…?

She'd think about that later. First things first: She purged the regulator of the bail-out tank and simply breathed. Beneath her, supporting her, the megalodon moved in small, slow circles, waiting until she was ready, until there was need for its services.

Oh Daniel… She fixed her eyes upon the light of the world above, and her resolve firmed.

No. All this would not stand.

Not if she had a say.

Halfway around the world, an old man inhaled a sudden breath and came back to himself, and muttered a prayer: "Modim anah l'fanehcha, melech chai v'kahyam… I gratefully thank You, O Living and Eternal King, for You have returned my soul within me with compassion."

"Rebbe?" An acolyte glided to his side. "Is Daniel…?"

"Daniel's gone," the old man quailed. The projection left him weak and feeble as a baby. In the next few hours, he would be fed, bathed. He would sleep-but not before he gave one more order.

"Find her," he whispered. "Find her." Better to Reign By Michael A. Stackpole

Michael A. Stackpole is a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning novelist, editor, game designer, computer game designer, comics writer, an podcaster, and screenwriter. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting, as well as working on ideas for a half-dozen other novels. To learn more about Mike's podcasting, please visit www.tsfpn.com (the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).

They stared at me as their bikes came to a halt, furtively assessing what level of threat I might represent. Then, starting with one Ancient who quickly infected the rest of the bikers, they snickered, cackled, and roared at some hilarious private joke.

I felt my cheeks flush with shame, though I fought for control. At first, I could not understand their scorn. Like them, I was an Elf and looked no different. Besides, I had gone to great pains to outfit myself appropriately. Silver chains dangled from my black leather jacket and razored spurs gleamed in the half-light on the toes of my boots. My fingerless gloves bristled with gleaming metal studs, and I'd even gone to the ridiculous length of affecting a purple and green mohawk hairstyle so I would fit in. Even the antique Harley I rode matched their chosen steeds of steel.

As the group continued to clutch their sides and whoop out new peals of laughter every time one of them looked at me, the truth finally dawned. Everything about me was perfect-too perfect. In this noble gathering of Elves, my clothes were just too new. My studs and spurs showed no tarnish of blood residue and my fingernails lacked the telltale oily grit from working on a bike. These details and many more revealed my true nature.

For these denizens of Seattle's Sprawl, the only thing funnier than an Elf up from the preserves of Tir Tairngire is an Elf from the wilds who attempts to disguise his origins. My precautions, my plans, had been worse than for naught, they had betrayed me.

If my face was red before, it burned now with shame.

One Elf, distinctive for the black flesh and pink scar slashed over a milky eye, approached and wiped his hands on my jacket. "Geez, chummer, real wiz rags, 'kay?" Like a court jester, the jackanapes turned to his compatriots and bellowed, "His Majesty has sent his Minister of Fashion to us, chummers. Show some respect."