Anthology - From the Street

I remember our approach to the Swamps that day. Their conversation faltering and the smiles dropping off their faces like iron anvils. Quite a contrast to the Ridge. As I turned inland at the southern end of the Dyke, they saw the sickly thin survivors wading through the water. A long chain of them, hounded by flies, blankly piling up bits of debris on top of rusting shells of cars on top of heaps of rotting branches. It was tempting to think that they shuffled like zombies, but out here it was a good idea to draw a clear line between the barely living and the wading dead.

"What are they doing?" I remember Razor asking.

"They're building the Dyke," I told him. "They think they can reclaim Richmond."

As we slipped on by, he and his friends watched the scene with sour looks on their faces. There were huge makeshift banners laid out along the Dyke, for the benefit of all those wealthy execs flying in toward the aerodrome. "If you won't do it, we will!" was one of them. Others were less polite. But those poor souls were hardly in a state to do anything. I remember Razor and his friends tensing as they spotted a man, a rusting assault rifle in his hands, standing on one of the tiled rooftops that peeked out of the foul water. A second armed man came up the roof behind him.

"Take it easy!" I told my passengers.

"Who are they?" asked one, a young lad with startling white hair.

"You're going to see Arty Skunk? Well those are his men and that there Dyke is his big idea. And there are any number of Gator Gangs that would happily prey on all these people if Arty's men weren't here. But we're all right. They know this boat, so don't rock it." Razor nodded with some sort of approval. Maybe once he'd been a bit of a community leader himself.

I was getting paid (and paid pretty well-they hadn't even haggled) to take this lot all the way to Arty's headquarters: the top floors of an old semi-submerged school just a little way in from the Dyke. The "Skunkworks," people called it. Arty's little community center.

I thought it best to go in with them, a familiar face to lead them up to Arty's "throne room" in the roof space and introduce them. I was almost more worried for Arty than I was for them. They carried themselves like cobras.

"We've heard you've acquired blueprints for the Vitus Grand Hotel," said Razor.

So that was it. The VG was one of the most expensive hotels in the world. The final extravagant flourish at the end of the Vancouver Ridge. The kind of place that didn't do rooms; if you couldn't afford a suite then they weren't interested in your custom. If these guys were planning to hit the VG then they really were playing in the big league. But Arty wasn't going to be intimidated. He was his usual clipped and charmless self.

"We'd considered staging a protest there. What's it to you?"

I wondered what sort of protest he'd contemplated. The VG already attracted all kinds of jealous slurs, jokes, and graffiti: bloggers calling it the "VITAS Grand," and so on. But the VG was too rich and classy to care about a little plague joke. And much too secure for Arty's minions to tackle. I was surprised that he'd managed to get the blueprints in the first place. Vancouver's wealthy Cascade Crow landowners tended to pay well to keep the details of their property away from public eyes. But there were still a few well-connected Amerinds with some sympathy for the plight of the Swamps dwellers. And Arty was the kind of man who could capitalize on bourgeois guilt.

The shadowrunners shifted uneasily. Razor took the lead again.

"We'll pay well for them."

I remember Arty looking at the antiquated datapad in his hands. That's when I saw that glint.

"Money's not much use to me out here," he barked. "But… decent guns and people who know how to use them… those I can use."

I doubted Arty was the only source for the information they wanted. But this would be clean: no risk of alerting the target. I could read the same thought on Razor's face.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"There is a gang that has been terrorizing my people." (My people? The ego of the man!) "They call themselves the Crocs. King Croc is a troll. And there are his two lieutenants, one of them a shaman. They've got a nest not too far away. You bring me… their heads… and then you can have your blueprints for free."

Arty's minions smiled at each other and nodded approvingly. The shadowrunners looked at each other, and asked for a moment to discuss the offer. I stood at the back of the room, hardly daring to breathe. Nobody would be sorry to see the Crocs get their comeuppance. I'd heard all about them many times. The abductions. The drugs. Abuse. Destruction. Black magic. Worse. The Crocs were a menace, but these guys looked up to the task. Yes, I remember thinking I'd be very glad to see my passengers take this deal. From the animation of their huddled discussion, I got the sense that they were not too sure. They asked a whole lot of questions about the gang and its crimes, asked for a glimpse of the blueprint file to confirm it was what they were after, and in the end Razor came back.

"Deal," he said.

I wasn't about to put my boat in danger, but Skunk was more than happy to put one of his at their disposal. I figured I'd hang around. If they came back alive then they'd paid for a two-way trip. At any rate, I could hardly leave without seeing how it all turned out.

After they'd shipped out, Arty Skunk walked straight past me and out onto the adjoining roof. "Monty," and a curt nod were all the acknowledgements he could muster. But then he stopped and turned back. "You think they'll manage it?" he asked me, without looking me in the eyes.

I shrugged. "I reckon they've faced worse."

They must have because they were back within half an hour, with barely a scratch on them. A large head and some other bodies were heaped together on the prow. But they hadn't just brought back gangers. There was also a traumatized huddle of six victims, and the dead body of a seventh-a little girl. I couldn't comprehend how long those people must have been swimming in their own filth in a cage under King Croc's nest, nor the kind of abuse they must have endured whenever they were actually let out. At that point I would have done just about any favor for Razor and his friends, but they seemed satisfied with just a ride back to Granville Island with their precious blueprints. As I was leading them back to my boat, I glanced up at the roof. King Croc's fat head, still dripping blood from its flabby severed neck, glowered down at me from its new home, and Arty Skunk, teeth clenched in a sick grin, was hard at work sawing the head off the foul-smelling shaman.

He's had six years to lead Richmond back into the 21st century! I'm lost in memory and gripped by anger, so the boat hits a big wave sideways on and Elf Girl finally gives up her breakfast over the side.

It didn't take Skunk long to realize he was on to something. And somehow it didn't take him much longer to make himself the go-to guy for Vancouver blueprints. Then the Crash ruined a whole lot of people and destroyed a whole lot of records, and Skunk's stock hit a new high on the black market.

I've shipped in a lot of shadowrunners since Razor and his friends. I've overheard a fair few arguments. But in the end, almost all of them have paid Skunk's asking price. Sure, he could sell for cash-he always could have done that, I guess-but he gets a much better deal this way. Arty Skunk no longer runs the southwest corner of the Swamps-he runs the whole place, near enough, and everybody's terrified of him. But there are still Gator Gangs in the Swamps. There are still drugs and crime, disease and tormented spirits. The Dyke was never finished, and now it's nothing more than a decaying trophy shelf for the self-styled Man with the Plans.