Anthology: SHADOWRUN: Spells and Chrome

"That was different and you know it, Sting!"

"Do I? Have the corpgeeks cut your puppet strings?"

As Sting drew in a breath to continue her tirade, I sampled the gang's mood and knew my time had come. I coughed lightly and placed both hands palm-down on the table. "If you will forgive an uninitiated outsider making a suggestion…"

Surprised by my action, Wasp and Sting both glared at me, then nodded their assent.

"I would point out that caution against dividing your strength is well grounded when considering a battle, quick or long. On the other hand, having mobile flanking elements able to react to threats is also indisputably wise."

"Thanks for the flash from the front," Wasp sneered, evoking new laughter from his compatriots. "Now that we've heard from the Moronic Majority…"

"Wait!" The edge in my voice calmed the laughter, but not the tension that spawned it. "I have an idea. As you will recall Virgil admonishing the Romans, all that is necessary to win this conflict is to 'subdue the arrogant.'" I started to explain that with the sniper rifle in my pack, I could easily eliminate the leader of the Meat junkies with a single, through-and-through gunshot wound to the head. I knew that the Meat Junkies would be disorganized and powerless without a leader. They would be impotent until another strong leader arose among them, and that would be a painful process. Before I could unfold my plan, Wasp cut me off.

"Dandelion talk and chip-dreams!" Wasp's anger gathered like a thunderhead. "I don't know this Virgil fellow-didn't catch his simsense show-but he don't know squat about battles in the Sprawl. Neither do you. We've got a battle to fight tonight, and we ain't got time to nursemaid some greenie from the forests. All I can do is give you your first lesson: I run the Ancients. I do the thinking! I do the planning!"

"And we do the bleeding." Sting's comment sank in to the hilt and brought Wasp up short. She glanced at me. "I don't know what this Sears biker has in mind, and I don't care, but I do want some flexibility in this plan of yours. We have to be able to cover our backs in case the Emerald Dogs or Meat Junkies show us more than you guesstimate they have."

Wasp stared from Sting to me and back. "Fine, you want a reactionary force? Great. You, Pearl, Tiny, and the greenie. Pick out another half-dozen people, and you're it. We hit a hard point, you take it out. You happy?"

Sting took the minor concession, and with a sly grin, turned it into a major victory. " I'll be happy if we don't have to save your ass too many times. Fresh perspectives and other plans will keep us alive, Wasp."

"Then let's hope that if you are needed, you do succeed." Wasp turned from the table and pointed back to where our bikes waited. "Mount up, my brothers. Tonight we remind the city we do not tolerate encroachment on our turf."

A general war-whoop filled the warehouse, but I did not allow it to distract me. I saw Wasp watching me out of the corner of his eye, and I knew he had quickly assessed my role in settling the dispute between him and Sting. Whether by accident or design, I had mediated between them for the briefest of moments, assuming a position of power. Draping an arm around Pearl's shoulder, he whispered into his ear.

I smiled slightly, but knew I'd have to be careful. Who would detect malice in an accidental shooting during a rumble? A quick push from cover and I would make a perfect target for some Meat Junkie. If that was the game and those were the rules, I was more than willing to play.

Knowing my Ranger Arms sniper rifle would not be of much use in the close combat I anticipated, I drew an Ingram from the Ancients' armory as well as enough magazines to last me well into the next century. As the roar of countless motorcycles filled the warehouse, I joined up with Sting, Pearl, and the rest of our taskforce. Tiny, the other Elf designated to join us, looked large enough-and ugly enough-to have been the result of an unholy union between Elf and Troll.

As I rode up and swung in beside him, he folded his arms across his chest. "You gotta name, chummer?"

I shrugged in an easy, almost friendly manner. "In the Tir, I was known as Alejandro Kylisearn, but among you, having a colorful nom de guerre is the way things are done." I stopped there, my voice betraying a dilettante's enthusiasm for a sinfully sinister adventure.

Tiny's face screwed up in confusion. "You need a street name."

"My thought precisely. I was thinking I would call myself…"

My voice faded to nothing as Tiny vehemently shook his head. "You can't name yourself. Only the leader can give you a name."

Pearl pulled up on my right, sandwiching me between him and Tiny. "I think, for now, we'll call you Greenie."

I graced him with a plastic smile. "You have no idea how that makes me feel, Pearl."

Further discourse with him was cut off as the lead elements headed out of the warehouse. We brought up the rear and I let Pearl's bike slide in ahead of mine. Tiny, for reasons only he could fathom, had obviously decided he would be my "pal." He joined me at the back of the pack. As we rode from the warehouse, a huge door slowly descended, shutting up the building.

Seattle's streets, laid out in a motley confusion of grids blanketing countless hills, glowed pink-neon beneath sodium lights. The day's earlier misting of rain and wisps of fog drifting in from the Sound, gave the Sprawl a sweaty, steamy feel. The tall, dark buildings closed in tighter than the redwoods of the Tir and I felt much the alien in this stone landscape.

As we headed down a hill, I saw the whole leather and steel line of Ancients writhing through the streets like a snake. Pedestrians froze like frightened deer in the glare of our headlights, or scrambled off into the haven offered by dark alleys. Normal citizens looked out from upper-story windows, exposing only their eyes and the tops of their heads. They believed themselves safe this time, but I could taste the fear on the wind.

In Seattle, the Ancients are regarded not so much as a biker gang, but a force of nature.

Wasp swung us east to pick up the Eastsiders, then headed us off west down Republican. The addition of the Eastsiders increased our forces by roughly half. From the hardware bristling on the Ancients' bikes and bodies, I judged we were as well-equipped as most private armies, yet I doubted we had the discipline and tactical training to be quite as effective.

Yet, depending on Wasp's performance as a battle-leader, I might revise my assessment of the Ancients. Many a leader is not fully adept at politics but is more than capable in a firefight. Though Sting had raised objections to past plans and assaults, the very fact of Wasp's continued leadership of the group suggested abilities I had yet to see.

As we reached the northern perimeter of the area we were to conquer, Wasp issued orders in a commanding voice. He had half his people dismount to act as shock troops, while the rest split into two groups. One group shot over to Aurora, and the other set off down Dexter. The mobile pincers would isolate the first block, from Republican to Harrison, while the others would clean it out.

That may have been the plan, but the Meat Junkies quickly raised objections. Pouring into the disputed area on Thomas Street, they formed up on Dexter on the other side of the monorail line. Their foot soldiers were arrayed behind two heavily armored trucks and a phalanx of riders. From what I could see, they outnumbered us, but their weaponry could not match ours. This mixed group of Humans and Grunges was, nevertheless, not about to give up their turf without a nasty battle.

A loudspeaker mounted on one of the trucks spewed a guttural curse that could only have come from the throat of an Ork. "Dandelion wine gonna run in the streets if you Ancients ain't cleared out in a minute."