East and west and south and north, the messengers ride fast
And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home
When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome!
The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain
From many a stately marketplace, from many a fruitful plain
From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine
Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest of purple Apennine.
The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Umbro, shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls
Whose sires have marched on Rome.
–Horatius at the Bridge, Macaulay
Central Valley, Calfree, Feb 2053
There were mornings when Susan woke up feeling forty instead of twenty-three. Filled with straining stitches, instead of nanite-spun flesh and synthetic blood from countless medkits. Some Runners who'd been twice as long in the game hadn't seen so much fighting. Hard as she trained and pushed her body, she got tired sometimes. Firm as meditation held her mind, the nightmares and doubts crept back.
She made a fist over the scar on her bare breast. Docwagon brought you back to a different, weightier world. Finally knowing for certain, you could die...no, without the nyuyen to buy her life from a megacorp, she should've died. Harry and Ilsa, too. She'd fought down her fear yet again–the fights with bandits and mutant ghouls proved it–but she still got bad headaches sometimes. She wasn't so fast as she should be.
You got maybe three extra lives, before brain damage shut you down. A Fixer she'd worked with in Seattle, Docwagoned three times, had gotten shakes in his cyberlimbs too bad to lift a datapad. He'd been lucky, of course. It was death, snatching it all in an instant, like poor Croce, Iraj and Sandra, that made it hard to get up in the morning.
Harry had his own scars. She tenderly stroked the two bullet marks on his abdomen, from Redmond and San Francisco. The wider rifle-scar on his shoulder, from El Infierno where he'd saved her again. Then the little mark over the nerve cluster behind his collarbone, where the Triad enforcer had slid the needle in until he'd screamed. Hong Kong had swept him from heaven to hell and even further down.
Adept Pain Resistance had held the process of torture up, until his crew had gotten to him, but the Triad men had told him all that would be done before he died. Like Susan, beaten and helpless that night in Redmond, he'd been terrified. But he'd buried it under steel for years, because almost getting fed your own tool seemed a ridiculous thing to be unmanned by. After six months of marriage it had all come up. Susan had held him as tight as she held him now, while he cried like a child.
"…love?" His hand drifted down her back, as her embrace woke him, "You okay?"
"Perfect now. Just thinking. Maybe getting up and going on is what makes heroes, sometimes."
"Don't have to go just yet…?"
Susan grinned into her husband's brown eyes. If he was awake, he was ready. As he stroked down her hip to her muscled thigh, she kissed him slowly. As if it were the very last time.
-0-
"…this Run will be our last, if you wish to join me–but before that, I need your help. I am being tracked by one of our old enemies, Susan. It will take both of us to draw him out, but with a little support I think we can dispose of him permanently. If we are to be free of this threat, this is the time to strike. Come ready to fight, or, if we must, to run."
They'd talked over Ilsa's call the day before, but if she was asking for help there was no question. Their days at the little house in the valley were numbered in any case, if the Native Californians they'd fought were really working with Saito. They packed all they really needed into their plain civilian van (which wasn't much, by design). Pup lay down under the back seat. Susan patted her head, squeezed Harry's hand, and he drove away from their home.
They met Ilsa near a pileup of autos that had been rusting by the freeway for years. She pulled up on time in a black Bulldog, the ubiquitous Runner's van. She hadn't come alone–but Susan's only thought was to fling herself against the redhead mage and try to hug just as long and hard as she'd missed her. Parting from friends was a Shadowrunning staple that had always bitten hard on her, and Ilsa was a chummer rooted in her heart.
"Wiz…Dr Tresckow, am I right? How does that feel?"
"You presume correctly, Susan. I feel…I missed you too."
They'd kept in touch over the net, but only with words. Susan needed to know the truth of all Ilsa had done and felt. She looked poised and stunning as ever in her dark pantsuit, with three buttons undone against the heat–but every reunion with Susan seemed to find her more solemn and hardened. Being born to fall into the Shadows meant you never stopped falling deeper.
"This is a surprising honour." Harry was left to welcome Ilsa's companion, "How fares San Francisco, your majesty?"
Norton–self-proclaimed Emperor of California and the UCAS, Protector of Aztlan–seemed naturally unchanged from memory. Someone had donated a new army dress uniform, and the brilliant darting twinkle in his eyes was more intense than they'd ever seen, but they were sure Norton would only change when California vanished away.
Norton's canine companions, Bummer and Lazarus, hopped out of Ilsa's van to stretch their legs. They ran about as far as Susan–and Pup, pressed against her thigh. Pup sat back and regarded the two powerfully built part-hellhounds, who stared back at her.
Bummer was first to trot forward, sniffing confidently. Only to swivel, as his lifelong friend gave a jealous growl. Pup flicked her ears haughtily and scratched. Oblivious to this little drama, Norton beamed at Susan and Harry before assuming a declamatory stance.
"Dear to our heart as this welcome is–Sir Hotspur, my dear Lady Susan!–we scarcely have time to stand here and speak of old adventures. Lady Susan, renowned Hotspur–the whole land of Calfree stands in peril and desperate need!"
In spite of Norton's delivery, Susan and Harry had received this impression of American's violent ward ever since they'd arrived. The steely serious look in Ilsa's eyes, as she adjusted her glasses, made a stronger impression. Not that the gravity of the situation could be doubted, as Norton began to say something about war, and a gate of smoke and thunder suddenly yawned above their heads.
The heat struck them all like a furnace-flood. Pup bolted and hid under the van. Bummer and Lazarus leapt back with hackles raised. Fighter and Hotspur summoned all their Ki, as they saw it. As the frightening shape of a dragon might appear in a cloud, they realised that the glaring mass of flames above was only a single eye.
"Ilsa Tresckow. Susan Lei. This meeting has been long in coming! Yet I promised, in Seattle and in Berlin, you would rue with agony the day you crossed TORPHET! I will not ask you to beg for mercy–"
"NORTON!" Ilsa shouted, "Banish this spirit with me!"
Norton wasn't so mad as to quibble over manners at such a time. His eyes bulged from his weathered face, more bold and manic than ever, as he threw up his hands.
"THE RULER OF THIS LAND COMMANDS YOU, DEMON! DEPART FROM THIS COUNTRY FOREVER AND DO NOT THREATEN OUR PEOPLE AGAIN!"
From the dry soil of his land, threads of power flowed up to blaze in Norton's palms. Around Torphet, a dozen ash-black spirits blazed in mid-air. The titanic gathering power rolled Ilsa's eyes back in her head with holy joy. But Fighter had barely time to think why the Free Spirit could monologue at an ambush, before she got her answer. A long avalanche of fire dropped from the spirits onto them all, exploding like napalm in the morning.
There was no air to fill a scream, and Fighter was blind. She only felt a dull pain–because all of them were dead, she was certain. But then the ache down to her atoms was as if half her body had been scoured off and remade. Perhaps she, Harry and Ilsa were no more themselves than Docwagon vat-clones from now. But she would still fight, because Norton's magic had saved them all.
Her vision was coming back. The tremendous golden light from Norton's hand was fading. The Emperor collapsed in a dead faint–but if Torphet had also expended power, they had a chance.
And their van was a blasted wreck on its side. Fighter couldn't see Pup, if her only girl were dead…she would dive through metaplanes of inferno to wipe Torphet from existence.
On the ground, Hotspur drew his Browning and fired. He leapt away from six firebolts, as the fiery eye contracted with wrath. Ilsa's Fireball burst in the pack of spirits; the raw force of the blast threw them in every direction. Towards the ground, as Bummer and Lazarus ran and leapt. Hellhounds weren't afraid of fire; their jaws ripped a writhing spirit into wisps of smoke.
Then Fighter leapt aside, kicked off the side of the Bulldog van. Firebolts sizzled behind, she flew up beside the highest fire spirit. Her fist threw out an extinguishing blast of pure Ki.
Fighter tumbled away from firebolts as she dropped. The fiery eye beneath her became a mouth; Ilsa swiftly hurled a Manabolt. Kicking out through two more spirits as she twisted through the roaring air, Fighter dropped down beside Hotspur. As he slashed up through another spirit, stooping down on them like a burning hawk.
Ilsa's Firewall had absorbed a barrage of attacks. As the fire spirits swooped around it, she dodged their arrows of flame. She'd had to Heal Lazarus from a bad firebolt hit, and now Fighter, as she rolled aside from two attacks right into a third. She was staggered by mana drain, as a crackling spirit above her threw out a claw. Hotspur turned and put two bullets through its long, bestial face.
The remaining fire spirits drew back and circled; flight was a powerful advantage against close combat specialists. Ilsa threw up another Firewall to encircle herself. When a spirit appeared above her, she was ready to blast it.
Fighter and Hotspur sweated under the heat, dodging the firestorm from all sides. Bolts burnt through Mystic Shields to scorch their limbs, but nothing to bring them down.
When Ilsa's manabolts had taken out all but two of the fire spirits, they finally dived on the Runners from either side like living missiles. Fighter tried to think where she could dodge, how she could save Ilsa–then Lazarus' eyes glowed red above his snarl. One spirit stopped still in mid-air before it exploded. They evaded the last fireball–Susan snatched up the unconscious Norton–with only minor burns over their minor burns.
Hotspur dropped his sword to slot another mag in his gun; grimly aimed it up at Torphet. The fiery eye closed up with a deafening snarl.
"You cannot escape me, mayflies. Dance on for a moment, in pitiful fear, before your world burns."
-0-
"Susan, love…you really kicked that monster's hoop in your first year?"
"Well, Ilsa and me were such a great team…"
"As I recall it, we had the assistance of four Wind Dancers, and I left in a Docwagon." Ilsa drily cut in, "In any case, I am now certain that the spirit we fought beneath Seattle was a spark or ember; a subordinate manifestation of a greater entity. As were the embers we fought today. All of them were Torphet and Torphet is un-banished. Now we know more of what we must destroy...a Free Spirit of uncontrollable destruction. I am sorry. Again, I was...!"
"No, Wiz. It's okay." Susan reached for her shoulder and squeezed, "You told us to be ready for trouble. You told us you were in trouble, chummer."
They were speeding north on the Five in Ilsa's scorched but still armoured van. Norton was sprawled unconscious in the back, his dogs whining at his feet. Ilsa was beside him and Harry was driving. Susan had one arm tight around Pup, on her lap. Norton's power had saved her girl from destruction with the rest of the party. They had seen faint smoke from their house on the horizon, so leaving her there would have been worse. According to Ilsa, Torphet's embers would have followed the essence trail back to Harry and Susan's homely hearth easily as a lighthouse, to destroy it.
"Susan, are you–?"
"Yes, love. I never thought I'd have a real home again, I…I'm fine."
Trying to drown the roaring in his ears with talk–and the engine-growl of the Bulldog, as his foot pressed down–Hotspur challenged Ilsa as to why Norton wasn't ruling Calfree already, with power like that. She outlined her theory that a very different Free Spirit from Torphet had set its power and madness on the old man, without his understanding. She'd hoped that one spirit would counter another; she had at least foreseen that the spirit of fire would underestimate the beggar king.
"Torphet's essence tracking powers are keener than any human mage; he will pursue us with redoubled strength. We will require a fortress, with top-grade wards, until we can determine a solution. That is fortuitously one of the perks attached to the Run of which I spoke."
"Slow down." Harry spoke harshly, over the grinding of wheels on the broken road, "Why's Torphet after us now? It's because you took this Run, isn't it? I couldn't take in half of what you told Susan on the comm, so you'd better tell us everything now."
"In abstract–Tir Tairngire are going to invade northern Calfree, within months. Torphet began stalking me after I was engaged by Kali to organise the defence, on behalf of her new bosses at Mitsuhama. Torphet doubtless expected I would lead him to you. This is something rather more a shadowrun–I knew I could hardly win a war alone."
Harry burst out laughing, briefly. He almost wished he could believe it.
"…three Prime Runners, three dogs and one Emperor? Facing Tir on the battlefield, standing in front of the tanks? Don't the Corps have an army for these jobs? Doesn't Calfree?"
"Ugh…alas, Sir Hotspur!" Norton was speaking as soon as he woke, "An army that scarcely has guns, nor uniforms to clothe itself, such is the rapacious corruption of Sacramento! The pretended leaders of this once-proud nation are unworthy. The riches of Los Angeles and San Francisco are lost. Disorder and division hold lamentable sway. Even yet, the people of this sovereign land have courage and strength. They have those three heroes that foiled the traitor Shavarus, and they have a king! The time is come for us all to stand together in our destiny."
Harry felt an unworldly tingle throughout his body. Susan stared into Norton's eyes, shining like royal diamonds. Something had changed–with war, everything changed. After years of holding court over graveyard peace, Norton was going forth to save his nation. Perhaps to truly win a crown. Kali had known what she was doing–Susan and Harry knew it–when she had tempted Norton with his own quixotic dreams and succeeded where Shavarus had failed in acquiring an Emperor for her plans.
"The token border guard will not last twelve hours." Ilsa stated, "If they fight at all, against combat mages, rotorcraft and panzers. Tir has claimed the land from Eureka to Redding since they annexed the remainder of north Calfree in '36. If they take Redding without resistance, they will most probably take everything else of Calfree they can seize. If the Japanacorps deploy troops to defend the valley farmlands, the Imperial Marines will follow. The invasions of '36, when Calfree appealed to Japan for aid, led to the San Francisco occupation. Saito and his faction have dreamt for years of occupying the state on a similar pretext."
"A true and incisive summation, worthy ambassador!" Norton burst in, as Ilsa paused for breath, "The misguided Tir, furthermore, banished all but elves from the lands they seized without cause. The exiled survivors, the Calfree Gypsies, wander homeless and friendless down to this very day!"
"Your majesty, if Calfree's people are caught between fascist elves and fanatical marines, their fates will be more hellish. Then Tir's NAN allies would fight beside them. Even Atzlan and UCAS do not want a Japanese west coast. A continental war. Perhaps an end to the San Francisco occupation, in time–but that is what dear Kali most wishes to prevent. She has provided specialists and funds for us to begin to set up an independent militia in Redding. A proxy force to resist Tir, until some sane resolution can be achieved."
"…Harry, darling, slow the van down. And watch the road."
Pup had been whining for some minutes, as the van attained a terrific speed under Harry's boot. A shallow pothole under-tyre threw them about like flies in a jar. Harry still stared straight ahead, but he clearly was not seeing the empty road before them.
Susan tried to take it in. From Redmond to Calfree, she'd always walked with death. The Shadow life demanded discipline and resilience–but in the end it was just you and your chummers, getting the loot and getting out, SINless and free. She knew war was something else. Landscapes scarred by shells. Helpless towns wiped out from the air. Soldiers tied to the stake, to die so thousands might live–or to watch thousands die, at the will of generals and politicians. Orion, her shifu, had told enough for her to know war was another world.
"The heroes of San Francisco stand against Tir." Harry finally spoke, "An army rises around them–that's how it begins? Kali's greatest show, the Run to end all our Runs. No one could take it except us. Only, exactly how does it end, for us?"
"Harry…"
Susan stared at her husband, her childhood friend–the heroic Runner who'd never asked that question before, let alone about a Run like this. Her eyes were sad, even as her heart swelled with love for her man.
"Did true hero ever turn back from such a needful cause?" Norton cried out, waving his hands even in the confines of the van, "Is there honour in the Shadows, chivalry when thousands lie defenceless? If you are the man of your boyhood dreams, Sir Hotspur! If you are such a man as your honest and loving friends know you to be–!"
"Norton! Your majesty!" Susan bit her lip and bowed her head, "Please, give us a little time. Even if you command us, we can only take this Run by our own choice."
"Absolutely true. Certainly, think about it and talk." Ilsa reassured her, "There are people already in Redding you will wish to speak with as well. There is never surety in war–but our strength must be all-committed, if we hope for even a chance of success."
Harry nodded, glancing gingerly at Norton. The Emperor's heart had always been with healing and protection, but if the power they'd seen could be enraged…?
"We are no tyrant, Lady Susan, to overstep the natural bounds of kingship." Norton lay back, weary, "Decorum and restraint, the royal dignity of our station and the freedoms of our people, have ever been the pillars of our spirit. Where I might command, I will implore. Your choice indeed cannot be taken from you–nor your place in the world, nor your destiny. This land must change, to face the storm, and even an Emperor must change with it. May the changes of these days spare our lives and souls…"
"You saved all our lives, your majesty." Susan smiled at Norton, as Ilsa cast a strengthening cantrip, "Thank you."
"Did I? I confess, there are times I feel myself somewhat confused..."
Norton closed his eyes. Bummer and Lazarus settled down at his feet, as the van sped towards Redding. Towards the coming war, upon which the eyes and ambitions of all the land's rulers were turning. Susan stared at the man with the power of a spirit, the Emperor who would be king in the north. The wandering madman with no home to lay his head–like her and Harry, now, and Ilsa. And the people of Redding, if the power of Tir descended on them unchecked.
She thought about the change that was coming. Buried her face in Pup's dark neck. The thing called war stood ahead of them like a black cloud–formless and unreadable, but more fatally real than anything she or her chummers had faced. She didn't know if it could be fought by one girl and her fists, but she would try. And she was sure Harry and Ilsa, the chummers she loved, would be with her.
-0-
Mount Hood Forest, Tir Taingire
Tir Taingire's Council of Princes was hosting a cultural soiree for high nobility and friendly diplomats, in the woods outside Portland. Elite guards in shining black armour stood between towering trees, while White Banner snipers watched invisibly from the foliage. The UCAS ambassador joked to Lugh Surehand, High Prince, that he had scarcely ever felt safer. The sheer perfection of Surehand's amused smile, and smiles of the lesser princes around him, gave them an unsettling uniformity.
The customary simple vegetarian food and exquisite wine were laid out on pure white tables. Representatives of several Corps and nations found a beautiful Tir lady, or lord, at their side, with guileless eyes and an irresistible desire to hear of their own country's traditions. Surehand himself impressed the ambassadors from Tir na nOg and Salish-Shidhe with his knowledge of rinnce fada and the Eagle totem sun dance.
Then the entertainments began with haunting flute and harp pieces–not by sordid professional musicians, but gently-born exquisitely skilled amateurs. The young women of the court performed a swirling dance, and the young men a dramatic sword dance. No one whispered that the Tir knew no more than anyone else what steps the Fourth World elves had danced. No one dreamt of such a thing, the modern choreography was so effective, and the waif-slim body of each dancer so breath-taking. No one even remembered that accompanying music was being piped from very modern speakers surrounding the grove–except for an old man who seemed mildly bored, with white hair and golden eyes.
The next item was provided by a Prince of Tir himself. Some of the tipsier human worthies were foolish enough to laugh at what appeared to be a three-metre ape, with knuckles hanging below his knees. The elves and everyone else with any sense, however, applauded with respect. The wonders of nature held pride of place in their hearts (It could not be otherwise, though all the elves drove cars and many had personal aircraft). Sasquatches, the old men of the woods, were quintessentially natural, magical and lovable. Surehand whispered to the Salish-Shidhe ambassador that 'Rex' was the most popular of the Council of Princes at every level of Tir society. It was quite a mercy that peoples so enlightened as the two Tirs and their NAN friends were left to the Earth, who truly valued its most enchanting natural treasures.
'Rex' deigned to announce himself with his true name, a twenty second song unpronounceable by metahumans. His main song, gilded with his own magic, strung sounds together that had never kissed before, began certain notes that then somehow stretched from the start of his song to the end, and finally wove something uncanny–yet also entirely warm and uplifting.
"No slanderer could say that we admit none but elves to the Council, Herr Brackhaus," A very tipsy duke of Tir noted, when the encores had finished, "And yet Prince 'Rex' has no interest in anything but music; we're not sure if he even knows what government is. A holy innocent. Stuffed toys have even been made of him; did you know? My children love them." He duly presented Hans Brakhaus with a small cuddly sasquatch, which Lofwyr's representative regarded woodenly, "Something for your secretary? Or perhaps something of the kind would soften Lord Lofwyr's image?"
"Lord Lofwyr…may perhaps suggest the idea to Dunkelzahn." Brackhaus pronounced mildly in the horrified silence, "That fellow is so consumed by his public image. As for Lord Lofwyr, it does not concern him greatly if he is feared, loved or forgotten. It is his own will, against any possible world, that determines his destiny."
He gripped the stuffed toy for a moment, then tossed it to his companion. Jacqueline, Brackhaus' secretary-bodyguard-factotum in North America, had assumed her true white-haired sasquatch form rather than her usual human illusion. She claimed to have mastered human speech through skillwires.
"The toy does not do him justice," She claimed, gazing after the sasquatch prince as he departed, "I might imagine that he was a king in Babylon, and I was a Christian slave."
This comment filled the grove with laughter, the duke was quickly escorted away, and the guests resumed their efforts to respectfully forget Herr Brackhaus' presence; it was as if Sauron had come to Lothlorien. Even for those who weren't fully aware that he was himself Lord Lofwyr, the Golden Wyrm–CEO of Saader Krupp and prince of Tir Taingire's council. The elvish princes who'd forged their young homeland secure against a meta-hating world were the last persons who'd ever willingly have dealt with a dragon. What Lofwyr wanted, however, he generally obtained.
"You will leave for Seattle this evening," Brackhaus whispered to his secretary, "And look into that business with the Universal Brotherhood. This time do not eat anybody who may be of use later on. I will personally take over matters here, and also the reins of the fire spirit. Did Fräulein Lei and her associates–Fräu, I should say–survive his initial attack?"
"They did. By the spirits, I'd love to break her."
Brackhaus smiled thinly. His secretary was a female of parts, with more deception to her than, for example, Prince Surehand.
"I have use for her unbroken, just at present. I will employ Torphet in a related matter. For all his power and scope, his mind is simple as a hunting dog's. A being of pure destruction has much to learn, in matters of calculated revenge."
Meanwhile, the Tir elves had deployed their pièce de résistance. Five natural and elemental spirits were raised from the grove and directed in an awesome, magically blazing dance with five agile and extremely courageous elves. Even more than the sword dance, it was a reminder of Tir Taingire's power; the steely and fanatical training of its military was legendary as its magic. It was shown as a provincial, unworldly strength, however, rather than anything the assembled delegates should personally fear. At the height of the celebrations, the High Prince rose to speak.
"Noble lords. My friend, Herr Brackhaus. Honoured guests. It is our pleasure to meet you on this auspicious day. With the recent trade agreement between our Land of Promise and the metropolis of Seattle, I see before Tir Taingire and all its neighbours a new era of cooperation and understanding–our ways may differ, but our dreams are akin to yours. There is no absurd elvish conspiracy for world domination. No plot except our blessed plot of ground; our little world, our Eden. A land of our own, where we might walk our own path in safety and peace.
"I have been advised to relieve your minds regarding the calumnious rumours–alas, we all have our enemies–regarding our southern border. Tir has not the least desire, on my honour, to mount any kind of invasion. The safety of our home is the sole desire of our hearts; sole, and unchangeable. The former state of California, conversely, has failed to secure even the safety of its people–or the safety of our people, defenceless before near-daily Humanis outrages. Calfree has no use, or even respect, for the many sites of magic in its northern forests. The reoccupation of the Eureka-Redding strip, claimed by Calfree for a time, will bring stability and peace. It will not bring war, or anything that need distract us from a pleasant repast one moment longer."
Brackhaus clapped with the rest–at another breed of performing monkey. To his mind, Surehand had merely gilded the lily with this whole display. The world did not care what elves and Californians did to each other in a failed state, and would Japan be so mad as to gamble for North Calfree, when it had half the world?
Lord, what fools. Who could ever be content with half a world?
In the following weeks, diplomatic farces of similar purport were enacted in capitals across disunited America. In Tir itself, many hundreds of Peace Force reservists reported in for retraining, grateful for the extra pay. Even fairyland had slums, and ignoble peasants to fill them.
In Redding, North Calfree, the whispers were that everyone except elves would be banished and anyone who resisted would be killed. Other rumours claimed that elves remaining in Redding would be shot as traitors to their race. All that Tir's–mainly human–agents had to do to spread fear was sit in a bar and talk.
While across a border of barbed wire and minefields, an army of green-cloaked, bright-eyed elves was already gathering. They played commlink games about slaying evil orks, then called through to their elvish families in the safety of Portland or Salem–Cara'Sir, or Malek'thas. They complained of the waiting, recleaned their guns, and stood ready to march. Into the land of shadows and vermin beyond the borders of their home.
