Anthology - From the Street

"You drink like a man," complimented Manuel.

Advantages of having some of my own toys. "I know."

"And I thought I had problems at home with my chica. What do you want?"

"Just keep on with the tequila," she answered.

"Very well," he obliged, "but I was asking what did you want."

This time it was Dr. Martin's turn to look pensive. She stared at Manuel for a while, giving him a clinical eye. He just gave her another smile.

"You have the right jaw and tan, but you have all your front teeth. Who are you?"

"Why, I'm Manuel of course. A SIN never lies."

"No you aren't. What did you do to him?"

"Are you going to keep asking dumb questions like that? Tempus fugit. Time flies, doctor, I suggest you ask the right questions before your husband requests your assistance once again."

"I had someone following me to this place, he will know…," Dr. Martin looked unsure, having just been reminded of her situation.

Manuel pointed at a corner, where a farmer seemingly slept his siesta. "You mean the guy who entered the cantina a minute after you did? That tequila he asked for was extra strong, if you get me. Unless he wants to report he fell asleep while on duty, he'll just say everything went fine."

"Who are you? Who do you work for?"

"My name doesn't matter, I don't exist. But my employer is an old friend of yours, someone who has followed your career with interest and is concerned about your current situation."

She eyed him suspiciously. "That sounds too good to be true, considering my situation. How do I know this isn't another sick little game?"

"You don't, but I was told to deliver you this." He handed her a small item. "Science without religion is lame…"

"… religion without science is blind," said Dr. Martin, finishing Einstein's quote. She opened her hand and looked at its content. From a small, aging pin, the genius stuck out his tongue. She almost dropped it in surprise.

"The Copenhagen Biotech Convention. I was there with UniOmni's negotiation team, nothing more than a young, bright rookie."

"My employer remembers having some interesting conversations with you and your colleagues at a nightclub. You didn't seem to be interested in mere profits like the others. You had dreams."

She sighed. "That was a long time ago."

"Some people have a long memory."

"Yes."

"Interested?"

"No."

"Excuse me?" It was his turn to be surprised.

"Not without my daughter. I won't leave without her."

"That can be arranged. How tough could it be?" Manuel, or whoever was in front of her, flashed a roguish smile.

"You'll need some serious cojones to do that. Or a death wish – they won't take it lightly."

"We'll take care of that part, it's our specialty. Besides, I've been in worse situations. Back when I worked with the Colombians, I had to spend some quality time in La Gorgona, courtesy of Aztechnology Corporate Security."

Dr. Martin's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean Gorgon Island? The maximum security hellhole?"

"Those words can't even begin to describe it," said Manuel, or whoever it was behind his face. "It is as if there is something evil in there, sucking away your life one day at a time."

I know how it feels, chummer… "So how did you escape? It's not like Televisa would ever mention something like that."

Manuel served himself some tequila. He looked at it for a while before answering. "I was rotting away in the Gorgon's belly, hoping for death to come soon. Then, one day, a strange guy came out of nowhere with an offer from an old friend of mine. Sound familiar?"

"Very."

"Anyway, it's not me or our mutual friend that we should be talking about now. I'll ask again: interested?"

"Yes."

"Good. It will take some time, but I suspect my employer has already set things in motion. She has this habit of making things fall her way, you know."

"What about you?"

"I'll be gone tonight. I need to make sure that Manuel has a terrible accident with his gas oven while sleeping his siesta."

Dr. Martin frowned. "Is that necessary?"

"What would you do for your daughter? For the future?"

Touche. "Anything."

"Then you just answered yourself. Do you have any other questions?"

"No, I just need another shot of tequila."

"Sure, it's on the house."

Manuel watched as Dr. Martin stumbled out of the cantina, half drunk with tequila and hope. His mistress had been right: the doctor was a survivor, ripe for extraction and recruitment. Oh, she would require a little guidance and a few adjustments, but that wouldn't be much of a problem – it hadn't been in his case, at least.

*A phonetic joke; Texans frequently pronounce it "tuh-KILL-ya" or "tuh-KILL-er."

DOG DAYS

by Robert Derie

It's the first real dog day of summer, and the streets of Seattle are baking. Somewhere up above, the sun is a baleful red eye floating above the haze of smog that had descended on Downtown. Puddles of last night's filth evaporate quietly in the gutters outside my destination: Club Penumbra. A few late patrons stumble out, blinking at the glare, and I caught a draft of cool, stale air. I enter, eager to get indoors.

I haven't visited Club Penumbra in years. The stereotypical place-to-be for shadowrunners had finally become cliche. But it's been too long since my last mission, and cred was running low. This is where the principal wanted to meet. My eyes adjust to the darkness and the scattered lights. I take off my respirator to taste the air: sweat, booze, and the faint tang of ozone. It's colder and cleaner than outside.

My Mr. Johnson is occupying a booth, drinking what looks like a red martini with a cherry in it. I study him before approaching: Anglo, with silver hair and blue eyes. By the lines in his face and the slightly-prominent veins on his hands, I guess him to be in his forties-though with modern medicine, he could well be twice that. He was corporate, and that meant cred. I walk over to introduce myself.

"Good morning. They call me Sticks. Our mutual friend said you wished my help in a certain matter, Mr. Johnson."

I sit down opposite him, hands visible and flat on the table.

"Mister John…? Oh, yes. He did say you were someone who could help." The man sighs. "I do hope you can help me, Mr. Sticks. I'm in a terrible state about the whole matter."

Great. A newbie. This close, I note a few more details: a slight Australian accent and a string tie held by a clasp that combined a Celtic knot with a circuit board. Maybe Mr. Johnson worked for NeoNET. Or maybe he'd worn it so I'd think that.

"I'll do what I can. Our friend only spoke in very general terms about what you wanted me to do. Something about a missing family member?"

I couldn't see any weapons on him. He could be wearing form-fitting body armor, though.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. It's my dog, Chester. He's been kidnapped!"

Mr. Johnson dexterously pulls a hologram out from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Chester is very rare, you see. A male Australian kelpie. He just came into his full growth and is ready to breed. The Australian kelpie has become very rare now, what with the troubles down in the old commonwealth, you know. I bought him from a farm in New South Wales. He's such a dear animal. Very close to me. It would be horrible if anything happened to him."

Mr. Johnson sniffs, then pulls out a monogrammed handkerchief to dab at his eyes.

I study the hologram. Brownish-black fur, a somewhat long neck, lean body, thin limbs and very prominent erect ears. It looked like any other dog to me. The hologram went through a three-second loop of the canine's ears swiveling to some sound from an unseen source, eyes following the ears by a fraction of a second.

Johnson leans close, his voice no more than a whisper.