Anthology - From the Street

I swung the Airstar lower until it almost skimmed the treetops-best way to avoid future encounters-while a nagging question formed in the back of my mind. Why had the two zoomies tried to shoot me down with no warning? I'd had plenty of run-ins with Salish and UCAS jet jockeys during past smuggling runs, but they'd never opened fire without issuing some kind of warning or threat first. This geek-first-warn-later bulldrek-that was a Lone Star trick. Not the kind of thing I was used to getting from fellow flyers, even if they were the Law and I wasn't.

The glowing orange orb of the sun, just rising over the horizon ahead of me, was beginning to dispel the shadows on the land below. Too bad it could shed no light on my question. I'd eluded my flying foes for now, but I couldn't run forever. Sooner or later I had to go to ground, and then they'd find me.

Well, what the hell. Maybe I could still do what I'd been hired to do before the cavalry showed up.

I landed the Airstar right where the Johnson had told me to, then holstered my Ingram and set out to retrieve the package. I briefly wondered what was in it-something worth sending air jockeys after a lone 'copter, maybe? And how had they known who I was?-but swiftly dismissed such speculation as useless. Smugglers who live to spend their earnings learn not to ask unnecessary questions.

The McNeil Island Penitentiary Compound was looming dead ahead. It had been abandoned for years, but the Johnson had warned me that "unfriendly people" would likely be watching the place. I knew I'd have to make an unorthodox entrance, but I still wasn't looking forward to it. I reached the entry spot, took a deep breath, braced myself, and lowered myself down into the storm sewer that led to the compound's central building.

After wading through stinking raw sewage for what seemed like hours, I finally came to the manhole I was looking for. I shoved it to one side, pulled myself up out of the sewer and squeezed through the narrow aperture, cursing under my breath all the while. Then, squatting on the damp concrete floor under a heavy grating, I looked around as best I could in the dim light.

I'd fetched up in a maintenance trench under the ground floor of the main building. I could see the outlines of power cables and plumbing pipes; they smelled of rust and rot. Hulking overhead, toward the back of the trench, I spotted several giant shadows-turbines, which meant I must be under the plant's power room.

I was reaching up to lift the grating when a faint grinding noise froze me in place. Then I heard the telltale whine of a laboring combustion engine, growing gradually louder as it came my way. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I saw a dark shadow rumble over the grating. I withdrew my fingers as the thing rolled to a stop directly above me.

It was a patrol drone-an FMC Sentinel. Only slightly larger than a kid's wagon, it was equipped with tank treads to cover rough terrain, and it packed enough firepower to ruin any shadowrunner's day. If it detected me, it would certainly ruin mine.

Soundlessly I unlatched the magazine in my Ingram, then reached into my cargo pocket and withdrew a 30-round clip of armor-piercing, silicone-coated depleted-uranium shells. As quietly as I could, I loaded the clip, then flipped the fire-mode selector switch to AUTO and poked the barrel between the chinks in the grating.

For the first time that night I was glad to be skulking in a sewer. If I'd run into the Sentinel above ground, I wouldn't have stood a chance of destroying it before it spotted me. But like most drones designed for security work and perimeter detail, the Sentinel's underbelly was fitted with light armor. After all, no one expects a security drone to run into anti-tank mines. Sparks flew as I cut loose with the Ingram and punched several rounds through the Sentinel's steel skin. The bullets ripping into its innards touched off electrical fires inside the drone, making it sputter and pop. A loud explosion knocked me backward as a stray round burst through the fuel tank. I scurried away as burning fuel began raining down into the trench.

Within minutes the place was crawling with drones. I had to expend the rest of my APDU and one thermite grenade before I found a ventilation duct to hide in. Crawling through the network of ventilation shafts up to the top floor took me about two hours. When I finally squirmed out of the narrow shaft, I landed clumsily in a darkened hallway. To my right was a security door, with an electronic keypad directly above the knob. Assuming I'd kept the map in my head straight through all the twists and turns of the ventilator shafts, the package should be inside.

I loaded another magazine, emptied the Ingram into the lock and kicked the door open. A quick reload later, I cautiously surveyed the room. It had been some grunt's office once, indistinguishable from a hundred others. A computer terminal sat on top of a cheap plaswood desk, both of them covered with dust.

I walked over to the terminal. A chip was loaded in one of its drive slots. I opened the desk's top drawer-just as I'd hoped, there were a few thumbtacks still rolling around in it. I took out a thumbtack, stuck its pointy end in the slot and wiggled it around until the chip popped out. Package retrieved.

I'd hardly turned around when alarm klaxons started blaring all around me. The sound of running feet came from the corridor outside; no exit that way. I turned wildly toward the office's sole window, only to see a curtain of thin steel plates ripple down to cover it. The sharp thud of the door hitting the wall made me spin back around, Ingram raised, to confront my new enemy-four armored security guards whose uniform patches I didn't recognize. All of their guns were pointed straight at me.

For about five seconds, nobody moved. Then I heard a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said my Johnson as she sauntered into the room. "You can put the guns away now."

As the sec-boys lowered their weapons, the Johnson gave me a brilliant smile. "Congratulations, Roy," she said. "You passed."

I eased my grip on the Ingram a fraction… but only a fraction. "This was a test? Just a test?"

"I needed to find out if you were worth your reputation," she answered. "And it seems you are. You've been quite resourceful. I can't afford anything less-not for the job I have in mind."

"And the chip?" Curiosity was fighting with anger now. I decided it couldn't hurt me to let curiosity win. "Is it something, or just worthless drek?"

"Oh, it's something, all right." The Johnson laughed softly. "Consider it your payment for today's work, should you decide you'd rather not be part of the real mission." She gave me a measuring look, then continued. "Would you care to hear about it?"

"You'd really let me leave now? Just like that?"

"Just like that. I need willing participants, Roy, not just hired guns who might decide to cut and run when things get more dangerous than they bargained for. From what I learned about you before setting up this little excursion, I'd say you might be a willing participant-once you know everything. But for the moment… " She gave me another sizing-up look. "What are your feelings about the Draco Foundation?"

I nearly dropped the Ingram in surprise. "Can't say I have any, one way or the other," I managed to say after a moment. "Why? Are you working for them or against them?"

"For." Another soft laugh. "Oh, definitely for. Which I'll prove to your satisfaction, if you want to hear about the job. Over dinner. You choose the restaurant-though I will say, I'm partial to Thai."

I holstered the Ingram. "I know a place in Tacoma. Roong Petch. Hole in the wall, but it serves the best yellow curry in town."

"You can still back out after dinner," she said. "I'll tell you enough to let you know what you're likely in for, not so much that you'll be a danger to us if you refuse. As I said, I need more than just hired guns."