Anthology - From the Street

I nodded toward the door. "Time's wasting, ma'am-and I'm getting hungry."

She smiled at that-a warm smile that lit up her blue eyes. I had a nagging feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before-and not on this job, either-but dismissed it as smuggler's paranoia. As I followed her and the sec-boys out of the room, I wondered just what kind of drek-pile I might be getting myself into. You know the old saying-never deal with a dragon, or with a dragon's employees…

A NIGHT IN THE LIFE

Written by Diane Piron-Gelman and Robert Cruz, based on stories by Jonathan Szeto

I shoulda known it wouldn't be a simple run. It never is. The minute they call it a no-brainer, you know somethin's gonna go wrong. Bad wrong. Real, real bad wrong. And it sure's hell did on this milk run. Double-crossin' Johnson, not enough homework, whatever-somebody somewheres fragged up good, and we all pretty near paid for it in blood.

But at least I've still got Demon. It'll take awhile 'fore she's patched up and runnin' again, but she's still among the living. A survivor, that's what she is. Like me.

It started when we met the Johnson-fella in a Vashon Island knockoff suit and a porkpie hat who smelled like cheap cigars. Said he was a private detective, working for some small-time CEO wannabe who was tryin' to buy out another itty-bitty corp. Wanted "evidence of business fraud," which the detective said was in the computer systems of the little corp's HQ. Natch, the system was closed off from the Matrix, so the Johnson needed us to bust in and sit our decker down in front of the boss's terminal. I guess we shoulda asked why he couldn't hire himself a decker solo and sneak the both of 'em in through a window-but we'd all gone a time between jobs, and cred was gettin' tight. A milk run looked like a good deal, so we took it. And my part looked easiest of all-drive my buds 'cross town, drop 'em off in the warehouse district, keep an eye peeled outside while they got down to it inside, and then drive 'em away fast. No trick atall for a rigger like me, with ten years of street smarts and the fastest fraggin' Leyland-Rover in the 'plex. Souped up her engine my own self, and did a fraggin' good job. What could go wrong?

So I jacked into Speed Demon that night and roared down Intercity 5 toward the rendezvous. Round midnight on the open road… my favorite place, my favorite time. There is nothin', but nothin', in this world as free and easy and flat-out wonderful as jacking into your wheels and flyin' down the highway at whosiwhatever-klicks-per-hour. Felt lighter than air with just me in the van; I knew that'd change once my buds were on board, but for now I soared down that road like I might take off at the end of it.

'Cept for the occasional cold wreck, the highway was empty-not a heat sig in sight for klicks. Just as well, considering-at oh-dark-hundred hours, anybody sane'd know better'n to hit the highways. Roving go-gangs like to prowl late, lookin' for unsuspecting drivers to play with. Course, I don't claim to be sane. Sane's just another word for boring as dirt. 'Sides, there was other prey for gangbangers tonight. The Spike Wheels, who claimed turf on my side of the I-5, were busy huntin' down Eye-Fivers in revenge for last night's rumble. They weren't likely to come messing with The Stuntman.

So I flew on down the road toward the night's run. Demon's visual sensors spun a rainbow around me; I saw sodium-yellow lamps flittin' overhead and blinkin' neon billboards of every color flashin' by. Off leftward I spotted the industrial district, glowin' red as a hellhound's eyes on the thermo-sensors. Flashes of chlorine green lit up the car's microwave radar-spikes from solar flare eruptions, which mess up E-M profile like nobody's business. But little drek like that didn't bother me. Me an' Demon were roadrunnin', and by the end of the night I expected to have my hands on enough cred to finally buy the new set of tires I'd been promisin' her for weeks. Ain't nice to make promises and not keep 'em, especially to the bundle of bolts you depend on to save your hoop.

I shoulda known it was too good to last.

I reached the rendezvous and picked up the team-two sams, a decker and a street shaman. With me driving getaway, Rocker and Punch packing guns and chrome, Zipdrive to surf the electrons and Catseye to take care of any magical drek (best to be prepared for everything if you want to spend your pay), we figured we were all set. And we woulda been if the set-up had been what the Johnson advertised.

Demon took us crosstown to the warehouse district, which useta be a decent workin' neighborhood until the jobs dried up and the big-money boys quit paying taxes. It's been slidin' down the scale from "blue-collar" to "wasteland" for years, but seems to have stopped for awhile at "seedy." The only folks 'round the district these days are outfits just like the one we'd been hired to crash: little mom-and-pop corps with big ideas, bigger hopes and small cash flow. It's cheap rent; it's also bad roads with holes and litter and broken glass. I could feel every crack in the pavement through Demon's tires, like you can feel bumps in the sidewalk through thin shoes. For sure, I told myself, for damn-fraggin-sure I'm buying those tires. First thing tomorrow. And a full tank of gas, too. I was feeling hungrier than I had any right to be, considering I'd snarfed down a whole bag of Hot'n'Ched'r cayenne-and-cheese-flavored soychips before starting out. So I knew Demon could use a refill, even though the monitors told me she had enough gas for tonight.

I turned off at Milton and Third, right where the Johnson had told us, killed the lights and coasted half a block to a decrepit-looking brick rectangle surrounded by cracked concrete and a chain-link fence. As I pulled up and stopped, I keyed Demon into stealth mode. The ruthenium fibers on her outside, electric blue when she wasn't on a job, faded to clear. I'd paid a nice chunk of change to get a radarbane paint job underneath, and this run was Demon's first since her makeover. The area around the Tacoma docks ain't as bad as either of the Barrens, but that just means that late at night you're risking small ordnance 'stead of large. Plus, the few Lone Star patrols sniffin' around tend to ask lots of nosy questions. So stealth seemed like an extra-good thing.

The rest of the team bailed, Punch in the lead and Rocker bringin' up the rear. Rocker gave me a wolf's grin as she slipped her headset on and leaned in the driver's-side window. "I'll be listening, Stunt. You see anything, give a holler."

"Chill," I said, and watched 'em go. Four little reddish blobs on thermo, bobbin' toward the big, empty building like some kinda giant fireflies. I didn't wish 'em luck; didn't wanna jinx 'em. Might as well have shouted "Good luck" at the top of my lungs, as it turned out. But right then the night was quiet, and seemed likely to stay that way.

I settled in to wait. Didn't jack out, of course-Demon's zoom lenses, magnification and external audio sensors made better eyes and ears for trouble than mine. I turned the diskplayer on, with the volume low enough not to scrag the audio feeds from outside. I had an old-style R B recording I'd been dyin' to listen to, and this seemed like the perfect time. The music would keep my brain from being lulled to sleep by the silent night, much more pleasantly than the cold rain that had started to fall. ASIST can be damned inconvenient when it comes to the weather-whatever touches your wheels, you feel just like the metal body of the car or whatever is your own skin. I tuned out the pinpricks of cold and wet as best I could-you learn to, when you've hadda rig through snowstorms a time or two-and kept the sensors peeled for danger. Didn't see a thing 'cept the occasional passing pigeon and a ripped paper bag tossed by the wind; didn't hear a thing 'cept for that same wind and the dim roar of passing traffic streets and streets away. Far off in the distance, some drunk was shouting at his girlfriend. Just the normal night noises of the city.