By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap,
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks;
So he that doth redeem her thence might wear
Without corrival, all her dignities:
But out upon this half-faced fellowship!
–Sir Harry 'Hotspur' Percy, Henry IV Part 1
WO Caleb Danvers, Ghost of Tir, paused on the sloping eave of a castle under a virtual midnight sky. The Pyramid's Host System design was classic corporate in its merciless extravagance; a feudal fortress vaster than the physical archology. Golden carps and dragons wavered in mid-leap, eyes blazing with calculation, above ranks of lacquer-black roofs evoking the prows of a warfleet. Messenger and servant programs thronged like pattering insects through every paper passage minutely painted with icons. Up and across the castle walls, around fantastical elevated gardens that served for executives' virtual retreats.
Against his will–elvish rangers had been his childhood heroes–Danvers had truly felt like a cyberninja flitting from node to node under a dozen masks. Until the network alert had finally tripped, a blue cherry-scented sky had filled with ink, and Black ICE had begun to swarm. Faceless shinobi with poisoned claws; human shapes leaping from roof to wall with the motions of steel spiders.
With Rowan, his mentor, Danvers had blasted the first wave; more were massed on the edge of every tower within his vision. Still, this was no trideo game, where quitting would do a bit of good. A mundane human with nothing but a genius for the matrix, and the will to do more than debug harvesters on the family farm, Danvers knew you could turn a drek world upside down if you went in and never quit.
Both Ghost deckers were using featureless metahumanoid avatars befitting a covert operation. Quite unlike the little pink pony perched on a high windowsill, facing them down. However strung-out they could be sure Hailey's meatbody was, this late in the game, her avatar bloomed bright-eyed and fluffy-tailed as ever. Appearances were always deceptive; neither of the Ghosts were fresh or undamaged, but they faced the Runner girl with identically venomous scorn.
"Run home to papa, and brag to your friends you even got this far," Danvers grated, "This isn't a playground for script kiddies, it's where you'll get yourself killed."
"Aren't you that silly girl who compromised herself with our comrade?" Rowan's faceless avatar still oozed elvish contempt, "We're a little busy to slot you ourselves right now. Or if you think your chummers expect anything from you now except supplying a minor distraction with your death, your are mistaken."
"Chip truth? That's why I've got to beat you or just die trying . For me, for Tarne, for all the vile drek and hate you've poured out on my hometown, too! Save the sexist man-cave stuff for drekky forums. Or some girl who can't, like, kick your drekky butts with the matrix!"
A pink little pony had never looked so dangerous or mad. The first time Hailey had come to the Pyramid, she would never had gone if she'd been an ork, or elf, or lacked the allowance that would've gotten her out of the City if it had gone to drek. Shadowrunning would be serious, dangerous work, but staying ungeeked would be the thrill-to do something great and good in the Shadows, like Fastjack or Captain Chaos. That meant staying alive, on the run, she'd thought back then, but that wasn't how Hotspur and Fighter lived, or how Anya had gone.
Running with lives held in their hands as a sword, hanging from their nerves and their rep, they lived and fought as those already dead. That was a Runner's honour, the Runner Hailey knew she was. She'd fought through failure and past hope; she meant to fight to the end for her City.
"Last chance. Not playing." Danvers' hands moved; a dark spear took form between them. "We call this attack program Gáe Bulga. You've maybe heard of the UCAS model; Black Hammer."
"Gosh, that hardly could be more serious. On the other hand, I call this ….cupcakes!"
A rain of small pink confections duly poured over the roofscape between the deckers, bouncing into mid-air and hanging in place. As Hailey bounded to a higher window from tiles rewritten to function as a trampoline. She corkscrewed away from the black spears cast after her, before scrabbling off into another node. A flight of Black ICE, leaping after her foreign avatar, were blown to digits by the cupcake data-mines.
The Ghost deckers raced without a word to another window, search functions flashing in hands. They flew through castle chambers, circling to intercept the young Runner and eliminate. Through a carved portal, straight into two samurai avatars with fierce mengu masks and burning katanas. Corpsec deckers, who'd clearly judged the pink one not to be the principle threat. Correctly; the Ghosts speared both hostiles to brain-fried death, the mission having clearly moved from stealth phase to the shooting.
"Smart enough to know she can't take us both on, at least." Rowan fired off at Danvers, "Interference is all she can aim for; a single subsystem, before we pin her down. Barriers, security cams, sentry turrets or elevators…"
The system that Hailey was burrowing into, however, whilst firing decoy ESPs off towards several others–was the Pyramid's all-floors PA system. Used hitherto for nothing more than Morale Boosting Thoughts for the Day, or announcements of exciting corporate perks and mandatory overtime.
-0-
"Hoi chummers; this is Hotspur speaking. This place belonged to the Azzies, last time I was here . When I had the honour of fighting next to Lt Kanji Arai, protecting this city from Tir Tairngire's Ghosts –who are attacking the Pyramid, now. They're in your comms right now, turning us all against each other, but together we can beat them! Don't geek anyone but the Tir, don't just follow their orders –do what you know is right, yourselves!
"You know the truth . I know you risk your jobs, even your lives, unless you follow what your bosses say, but this is not a day for lies! I'm a Runner, a killer who does your dirty work in the Shadows, but I am here for nothing today but to fight the Tir with you. Protect Calfree's people from the ones who kill and take all, because we took that job, Hotspur and Fighter! That's all I'm here for, all that Saito and his string-pullers want me dead for , but ronin still have honour. Street sams keep their word. This Runner will fight with you to the end. Be the fighters, the people you really are, if it means war on this whole steel-cold, stinking world! Then Calfree will be a country worth its name, fit for free, full-living people, for the ones we love –!"
(Hailey's message flashed on a commscreen. While the Ghosts carved through her datamines to cut the feed, she'd seized brief control of some cams)
"–if you yourself only make that leap! Half of the Tir are on the upper floors, heading for the top. The rest of them are dug in on floor twenty. Shaikujin–keep clear of all turrets, shelter in place until we come for you. Corpsecs–gather up, get them surrounded, keep your fragging eyes skinned, and don't die. These are the best Tir have, within our gates, but that's where they're going to–!"
With a squeal, the feed was cut. Hotspur still grinned at Ilsa, lowering his PDA.
Throughout the Pyramid, the marines still thundered up stairs, burst through doors, fired on hijacked turrets. Many remembered that Arai had been an excellent marine (before he'd lost his platoon to let the trog terrorist escape), but Saito's orders were without mercy and the Runners had killed too many of their nakama to expect any from them.
Much of the Corp security forces, as well, dismissed the strident broadcast as a trick. Still, men and women from five separate commands began to gather in scattered deaf-mute knots, with a purpose. The Japanacorps had sourced them from across Asia and America, but San Francisco had voluptuously taken them in; it was their City and this was their job. Sweating, bewildered, untrained to face the world's deadliest special forces–but their job was defending hundreds of innocent lives, and Hotspur's voice had rang with the conviction that they could do it.
Even the wageslaves huddled under desks on the upper floors felt it, through all terror. Death had come to the Pyramid's grim corridors and offices, but also a Runner who announced his name and what he had come for from the rooftops. An outlaw like no other; words and a day that might never come again for all their office-bound lives.
Harry still thought a real hero would've come with a proper speech prepared, no matter if there were time. All that the megacorps' taking, killing, corrupting, had done to the Sixth World. Redmond, and his childhood friends lost in that poisoned waste. All Susan had suffered, because of drek that had to change. All the dreams a fatherless slum kid had faced death for, rather than dying inside…well, he'd dreamt a lot when he was a kid, but you could never have all of it. Changing the world with a few pithy lines was harder than shadowrunning.
Chip truth, he'd never had the cold, pure vision of a Guevara, or the thunderous fury of Ned Kelly at Jerilderie (Ilsa told him about them later, and how they'd ended up). His will from out of Redmond had simply been to live the change he knew right–get his girl, save the day, Run free. Which was just about what had to do right now, with more hanging in the balance from the top of the world than even that kid had dreamed. Maybe if he lived, there'd be a chance to speak his dreams and his story; a few desperate words had almost felt like his first real shadowrun, down to the gut-gnawing terror because Susan was not beside him. There was nothing to do about that but fight.
"I knew we kept you around for some substantial reason." Ilsa quipped. They'd set down in one of the small corner offices Japanacorps used to isolate non-team players, with walls the same off-white as the rest of the Pyramid's indescribably functional offices and hallways, "You certainly rolled out enough platitudes to hold their attention. We may not even be facing the Ghosts, but I'm willing to frame them if it gets us out alive."
"Oh, Ilsa. Where the frag would I be without you?"
"Don't tell me there's no one else you'd rather share this last waltz with, Harry Fawkes."
Very quickly, Harry planted a kiss on Hailey's unfeeling forehead. Sunken in a Matrix-dream of battle, she twitched like a cat chasing mice through sleep. Hasegawa was told to sit tight, watch her, instantly pull her datajack if she spasmed. Shoot any Ghost that came through the door.
"If it's corpsec, throw up your hands; you'll both have a chance. If it's the Marines…you'll have a chance, alright? Stay chill."
"So ka, boss. Best I can hope for." Roku Hasegawa swallowed, rubbed his shining brow; loosened his grip on a looted Nissan Optimum. He settled on the deck beside Hailey, under the window-screens showing idealised vistas of Tokyo by the Bay. "…ganbate kudasai? I mean, give those Skinnies hell for all this chaos, all those lives...get Kali out of this drek if you can. She ain't such a bad boss she deserves it all to end today."
It was only Hotspur and Ilsa who made ready to move, from both sides of the office door. The grin was gone from Hotspur's mouth. His limbs vibrated with tension, then power, like a spring. He hit the door release and came out with his Browning ready. With only the two of them, he'd need to stick at Ilsa's side like magic glue.
Ilsa's eyes flicked between every door, junction and airvent, even faster than they moved into the Pyramid. Anya was gone; they were going weary and unprepared against a foe of towering lethality and intelligence. Forlorn children, facing the powers that overshadowed the world–except that they knew who it was they faced. If the Ghosts knew them, they knew that. With caution never more needful, their rapid advance might be the edge to keep them Running another minute.
With snatches of Hailey's guidance as she charged through the matrix, and the sketch floorplans from their last Pyramid Run, in another life, they got a couple of floors up. Without just yet running into the corpsec running from floor to floor, before they'd made clear how things stood–before a wire-thin hooded figure stepped from the office they'd passed, firing at Ilsa. An unseen summoner's spirit flew at Hotspur; a cloud of metal with silicon razorclaws. It wasn't the way of Tir's Ghosts to sit and wait for the enemy.
Without pause, the Runners turned. Hotspur dived for the wall as he fired on the gunman, while Ilsa banished the urban spirit with a brief, tremendous effort. She dropped prone as she threw up a Firewall behind them, gasping with mana-drain. As the third Ghost appeared from thin air behind her, with bare and deadly hands.
Agency training kept her chin down, neck-unsnapped, for less than a second before a striking elbow filled her mouth with blood. Then Hotspur's sword was flashing over her, the Ghost leaping back. Spindle limbs struck like some deadly alien insect. A wrist strike sent the sword rattling away. That was her one mistake–Hotspur's hands were charged with Ki. He could never have shared his life with Susan Lei without learning to fistfight.
The Ghost adept crumpled down the wall, hacking blood and fighting for breath. As the gunner stepped out before the Firewall, and the shaman flung acid along with their Healing, Hotspur barely recovered his sword in charging for a doorway's cover. Slinging firebolts, Ilsa ran and dived after him. Hotspur emptied the rest of the Browning's mag down the corridor–no good getting geeked with plenty of ammo. Still, he had two mags and the Fichetti left, while the Tir doubtless had as few worries about ammo as time. The female adept had slipped away, palming a Colt handgun; they were pinned down by unseen foes from a distance. All it needed was time, for the Tir strike force to geek the director, and until the Marines came up, as ready to kill Shadowrunners as Daisy Eaters.
Doubts killed, surely as fear, in fights where every instant mattered and adamant nerves were worth more than bullets. Hotspur's hand snapped shut on the hard-tossed grenade; flung it back through the door to explode in air between them. As Ilsa Healed her wound and waited–the Ghost adept kicked through the door behind them, across the office, a firewall sprang up in her face.
-0-
While Rowan held off the Pyramid's Black ICE and corp deckers, Danvers and his jagged crystalline ESPs fought to pin Hailey down and spear her. Carving through opposite sides of the castle in the matrix, they might as well have been fighting back to back; instant though-messages flashed between them.
"That ridiculous speech was another feint. They didn't have Tir state secrets, proof of our identity, or even our exact location."
"A feint while she grabbed the cams? Once I get hold of her, useless."
"Not a few cameras; something more. Where the téch is Fighter, anyway?"
"Killed, captured, wounded?"
"Is that likely? Would Hotspur be singing such a tune if his wife were captured or dead?"
"Then would he let her out of his sight, by choice? Would Ilsa Tresckow split her party against a stronger enemy, us?"
"No. A first-year makkaherenit wouldn't."
Blasting through the latest flight of Black ICE, Rowan had breathing room to rapidly scan security cams. No sign of Fighter. Tresckow had used minor illusions before, never Invisibility. He had a good idea of Hailey's meatspace location on the fifth floor, at least, but Danvers would get to her in the matrix before a fireteam, surer and safer. Still, where was Fighter? Somewhere without cameras…crawling through airvents or liftshafts, when the Agency's files had noted her severe claustrophobia? Rowan hesitated a moment; blasted more ICE off Danvers' tail. The liftshaft motion detectors had been deactivated for infiltration, reactivated in case elite corpsec got a bright idea–but for Fighter this was unknown, hostile ground. A lone counter-attack would be insane.
He still checked, and YES!, the sensors had been quietly re-deactivated, a Trap ESP screamed at his avatar's touch, and doubtless that decker girl was screaming her warning too. In the ear of the movement flying up the liftshaft, fast as a wall-running adept. Rowan realised exactly where Fighter was heading, and almost bit his tongue off.
"Danvers, you've been backtraced! That morkhan slot, while you were running her down–they're closing on you in meatspace! Relocate to the planned secondary jackpoint position, now!"
"Frag! Sir, if I lose the decker girl that slot will get away! Give me another minute!"
As deadly ICE gathered like ants, in the node gates on Rowan's every side–and in meatspace two Ki-blazing knife-hands stabbed through the crack of a locked elevator door–Rowan cut electromagnets on the lift car. It dropped from the top of the shaft, a slug down a titanic shotgun barrel. Fighter was wrenching the doors apart with a howl, rolling through in one motion into the bright-tiled walls and carpets of the landing, as the roar of sparking metal rushed past her back.
In the same motion still, she was up and sprinting. Hair flying out, Ki bursting under her feet, lips hung loose as her body strained around a lupine snarl. Close space had made her less fearful than furious; she rushed from the liftshaft like a river breaking banks. Off the landing, as the lift car exploded ten floors below her at the bottom of its shaft. Up the stairs–
"Danvers! Mitchell! SHE'S COMING!"
Hailey had placed the Ghosts' decker in the maintenance station, ahead. Susan struck the door button without breaking stride, and was in before the door had slid fully open. the Ghosts'–human?–decker was before her, scrambling to his feet. The Ghost gun-adept stationed with him for overwatch was inside the door, firing a silenced Ruger into her side.
-0-
There were no deafening shots, only the nasty clack-clack and punches of air through her flying black mane. Pro deckers never worked without overwatch; barely, she'd brushed the gun aside. Seized the elf's off hand that thrusted to burst her stomach with an adept's power. Crossed arms–the gunman clashed her forearms against each other, to break her grip, while thrusting a knee she barely caught on her thigh. His left knee, leverage to swing her rightwards, at the decker who would fill her back with bullets. Staying chill, getting through ridiculous peril was what she did, but the same went for the Tir Ghosts. Steel-blue eyes, mesmerising in their unshifting pride, slid the message into her skull that they were the best.
Time appeared to slow, as it did when a fighter had to kill or die. Still no time for Kung Fu, or Gun Fu; a pure brawl fit for a Redmond gutter. If she fought the swing to his right, she'd be shot as they struggled. With the barest thought, Fighter swung with the attacker to her left, a full circle, catching both Ghosts by surprise. Two more shots fanned out from the struggle like spokes on a wheel, striking celling. A low kick-he stepped back-she shoved; the gun-adept's back was between the decker and her. She saw him ducking down, as they fought, aiming his silent black Colt and holding his shot.
Then Fighter's foot went back to a wall and Ki blasted down her leg; a beautiful cannon of muscle. The Ghost adept slammed into the floor beneath her–quickly she rolled to get under him, as three bullets from the decker struck where they'd been. The Ghost adept still had hold of the gun–she grappled, a bullet still bit through her waist with a spray of blood and flesh. Still, she was ready for his chin to jerk up, from her stomach thrust. Nothing could stop her foreknuckle tiger-paw flashing up, his head snapping back.
Even she couldn't leap straight up at the decker, with a chunk blown off one side. Her teeth ground, she kicked the corpse straight up at him; got a knife in hand and roared drop it or die. The blonde human was...shrieking, dropping his gun.
"Argh, Ahh! It's okay! Frag, did I hit you? I didn't mean to! I mean, I thought that fragging Daisy Eater was gonna kill me. You saved my neck, ma'am…"
Danvers knew he couldn't outrun an adept, couldn't ever have ambushed or hid from an adept like Susan Lei. As the Ghosts had trained him–he was a Ghost, in life and death–Danver's rawboned face collapsed into pitiful helplessness. His whole will purged a soldier's ready posture from his inturned knees and slack shoulders. Purged from his spirit every trace of the aggression that he knew very well adepts could sniff out like sharks…as far as he could, with his comrade's body in his face, then sliding to his feet.
Doubt still clouded those dark, deadly eyes for a second. Time enough to trigger his thermite implant and fling himself onto Fighter like a touchdown.
The maintenance room was no bigger than a walk-in closet. Fighter knew instantly that she'd be blown to bits if she simply kicked out. Her right leg flashed a circle above her, as her body curled up. As her foot hit the Ghost's side, as he spun back into the wall, she was rolling away out of the door, and hitting the button to close.
Eye-searing white burst briefly around the door; Fighter felt the heat and smelt burning meat. Danver's cyberdeck, and anything on it that could've got them out of this, had definitely burnt up with both bodies. Fragging mess…just surviving wasn't so hard, so long as you did what had to be done and took the pain. She fumbled for a medkit on the floor, through a fairly small pool of blood.
Thinking of the marine who'd nearly blown her up that morning, Susan felt frankly disgusted with both the Tir Ghosts and IJM as enemies. She hadn't trained her skills to a bleeding monowhip edge, or endured through so many hells, to lose because smart, skilled people chose to die for poisoned bulldrek, in a battle with no fragging reason at all. No, there was always one reason, even when love and salvation were lost in the dark.
After the Agency, upon the horror and defeat she had carried from her first Run, she had crawled through hell for Shavarus, through all the terror-etched airways and passages of this pyramid, to the very peak. The memories marking every cramped tunnel were hell and terror, now, but she had lived even past hope of seeing Harry's face or being any kind of hero again. Through the one burning, hideous, bloody and beautiful hope, that filled up her heart from her fists...
"Susan!" Hailey was calling in her earpiece, "Are you…?"
"Yeah. Not geeked."
-0-
"Baby, you're still the best." Comm-calling Susan while hugging the wall of a stairwell, Harry smiled into the hand that wasn't gripping his Browning, "Now, fly back home to me, angel?"
"Oh, Harry –focus, you chump! Save the pillow talk for later, or we won't have a later. I fragging want to get back to you, and Ilsa, and Hailey, but…"
"…there's Corpsec dug in above floor twenty, between you." Hailey explained, breathing hard from running, "Trying to stop the Tir blocking force heading up, when the Tir strike force are floors above them already! I've got their comms back, but those Corpsec commanders, like, won't know their feet from their heads for hours yet."
"You did what you could, girl genius!" Susan insisted, "Saved the fragging day." The decker girl could only respond with a grateful sob.
If she hadn't strictly done that just yet–Ilsa noted–Hailey had certainly done more than should've been possible. For minutes after Ilsa had told her to jack out and run, she had been scattering spyware into camera and comm systems, that the corp deckers would steadily claw back from the Ghosts' last cybercommando. The two Ghosts attacking Hotspur and Ilsa had slipped away, as corpsec rushed toward the noise of gunfire and spells–slipped away to geek a decker, very possibly, as Ilsa had almost screamed at Hailey through her commlink.
As it was, she and Hasagawa had slot and run barely a step ahead of the Marines. Clearing each and every room, cubicle, crawlspace and cleaning cupboard for ambushes–no fool, Saito had quickly realised he was facing more than a few Runners–they were still sweeping up with a steamroller's fatally deceptive speed. Every Imperial Marine in the City now seemed to be pouring into the Pyramid or setting down roadblocks and machine guns on every side of it.
"Susan, could you get back down the same way you got up?" Hailey offered, "Through liftshafts and airvents, again?"
"Not quickly enough," Ilsa countered, "We must make our move before the Marines put in another appearance. Some form of 'saving the day' seems to be our only hope of survival, since we're cut off from escape or help, again."
"Only way I'd have it." If Harry's words were light, his face was grim as iron, "Susan, start working back to us, anyway. Stay safe."
"…there isn't any 'safe' today, love. The Tir are still charging up to the top, to geek those Corp bigshots. We're not getting out of this alive unless we stop them."
"A dozen Ghosts? All the Corp special forces up there? Susan, no–!"
"–I know! I'll shadow them. Do what I can. There could be some way to keep all of us alive, but only if I go! You'd do the same thing, Harry. Swear on my father's grave, I won't die. If you want to save anyone, it's Hailey who needs it!"
"Oh, I'll be just chill! It's fun to run!"
"...frag. Frag! Yeah…come back safe, Susan. I fragging love you."
"Hmph, still not really the time …but I love you too, tiger. All of you, all of me."
"So, Runner, just asking," Muttered the captain in Fuchi grey, whose squad was stacked up behind Hotspur and Ilsa, "Who wears the pants…?"
Before Hotspur turned, the captain had a sharp, cold feeling that this witticism had been the least appropriate and last in his life. Then Hotspur turned, grinned, and punched his cyberarm.
"Just part of being with the strongest girl in the world, chummer. Some bits are even better. The bit that's coming is near to the fragging worst, but she's going to go through it, and so are we."
"Yeah. My wife's up there too, you know?" This from a short, unpreproposing security mage with the captain's unit, "Floor twenty, Accounts and Purchasing."
"Same. My wife." A thickset, shaven-headed female guard jerked up her hand, "Hours they make us work, who else are we meant to spoon with behind the servers on a late shift? If they've hurt her…! Frag, would they have…?"
"The Ghosts never kill without reason." Ilsa put it plainly and blunt, "For any reason or slight advantage, they will kill anyone, without pause."
"Still think megacorps are the villains, Hotspur?" The captain really didn't know when to stay quiet. "Don't talk about their dark side, you are the dark side. We've all got family trapped up there, with those fragging keeblers; every Fuchi worker is our brother, our sister. The corps are the food on your plate tomorrow morning–the only future of safety and peace for the greatest number in this drekky, slum-stain world. Did you think all those guards you killed stood up and fought because they got paid that much? We know what's at stake. Our values, our Fuchi way of life, and future; those soulless beasts mean to burn it all. We're not about to hide in a corner and let them do that! So ka?"
Harry swallowed his uncensored thoughts about a company owning his future. He could tell that even some of the corpsec weren't feeling it, but sometimes you needed bulldrek to help you keep your job or face certain death. With no time to tear down, he built up with plain, solid bricks. Eyes grim as every battle he'd lived through, mouth moving strong as a swordarm and fast.
"Just got to say...I don't see Fuchi here right now, I see you. The ones who made ready to fight for your people, and all the rest are going to follow you. We pick up every unit on our way, as we go, and we go now, before the Tir and Marines turn floor 20 into a crossfire. We just need to keep them busy. Pin them down; nail some Ghosts to the fragging wall. Don't run, or they'll shoot you down, don't try to close or sling grenades. Mages, stay down and Heal, or you'll get geeked, and there aren't enough of us that anyone can afford to get geeked. Corp or Runner, none of us are going up there to die–we all picked up a weapon to protect the ones we love, and this is it! I'm glad to fight with you, and owe you my life. Let's roll."
Ilsa considered that the guards had already run towards the sound of a deadly firefight; they weren't the type who thought their job ended with staying awake and collecting a wage. Such silent speeches as they'd each made to themselves then, and now, went unrecorded–but they heard Hotspur, set their jaws and gripped their FN FAL bullpups. Made ready to follow a shadowrunner–they were truly as brave as any Corpsec Ilsa had ever burnt for nyuyen, but humans in the main needed leaders, and when it came to battles on the rim of hell, Hotspur was hers.
Following their skirmish with the Ghosts, at the point of a dozen guns, he had convinced the Corpsec they had better chances fighting Tir beside Hotspur and Ilsa Tresckow than trying to collect the Runners' heads for their bosses–two Prime Runners might not have put down all of them, but nearly all for certain. If the guards had been Mitsuhama, with zero tolerance for shadowrunners, or Shiawase with their semi-religious Employee Code of Conduct, they'd have been dead. Or if even one guard's drinking buddies had been brutally geeked by Runners–since Aztechnology's expulsion, however, corporate power struggles in San Francisco had been largely reduced to bloodless petty intrigue. The guards knew who they had to thank for that, as well as they knew these Runners had beaten the Ghosts before.
Ilsa still thought it had been far too reckless a gamble, but Hotspur had made it pay, again. Selling ice cubes to yeti sprang irresistibly to mind–and still, Harry knew he hadn't a dog's chance to talk his wife out of anything she pronounced in a certain tone of voice. Bold words belied black desperation in the corners of his eyes, as Ilsa hadn't seen since their last Run on this Pyramid. Letting Susan run alone had wrenched for him like dropping down a dragon's throat, and he was still falling. With her spells and plans prepared, Ilsa still screamingly wanted her best friend at her side for a battle like this.
But their only torturous path to life had been letting Susan go, so that had been it. They'd fought apart from each other long enough that they could bear it and been together strong enough that they would never be alone. Acceptance and attention lay on Hotspur's shifting shoulders and feet, as he made ready to move. Swiftly as they stepped out onto the floor, Ilsa glimpsed a white shape in the Astral, pure emotion–a strong woman with a thick ponytail running ahead of them both.
-0-
"...we've lost enough comms systems and cameras that opposition is going to be significantly organised from now on. I'm sorry, sir...we took a few corp deckers and spiders down, but now they're staying out of Gáe Bulga range, just writing waves of ICE. The téch marines are sending in deckers, too. Without Danvers, I can barely keep lockdown on panic rooms, barriers, turrets..." The crump of IJM demolition charges shuddered throughout the Pyramid, followed by bursts of Nemesis LMG fire, "...not that you even need a decker to get through those. I still can't raise Knightmare. The Marines are two floors below Morgan's holding force. Even checking every room, vent and cupboard on the way up, they'll be on you in five minutes."
"We could hold them off for five days–if we had limitless medkits and ammunition." Morgan, calling in from twenty floors below Desorn's strike section, sounded no more serious than always, "One casualty to report; our section matrix specialist is keeping local overwatch. I'm sorry they can't do more. What are your orders, sir?"
Desorn didn't immediately reply; Greenwood and he were crouched snake-still, as elite Shiawase guards swept through the corridor adjacent to them, and their comrades slid into position for a pincer. Greenwood still mouthed a multilingual storm of swearwords. Desorn wondered how it was possible that Susan Lei had passed through unknown territory with such speed and decision. She had infiltrated the Pyramid before, a year ago, but scarcely under circumstances she would wish to recall. He had spent weeks studying floorplans and intelligence, selecting the surest route. With no option but the impossibly dangerous, a few cheap adventurers had dared and won, again...it was most aggravating.
"Sir, what's your status, are you–?"
"Sir, may I suggest that we–"
"No. The die is cast."
Desorn spun into the corridor, as guards fell back from his comrades' fire. His hand moved so fast, it all but removed a head. Greenwood's handguns flashed from body to body at contact range; blood sprayed over her vulpine grin.
"We are minutes from the target," Desorn went on, feet and hands still moving, "Rowan, keep panic rooms and escape routes locked down at all costs. Morgan, take the offensive. Disrupt any organisation the enemy has achieved and break through; we will exfiltrate from the opposite side as they react to you. It will be more challenging than we anticipated, under the circumstances–but not, for us, impossible."
"Yes, sir. Medaron co versakhan; death to your foes."
-0-
Sgt Alys Morgan gazed coolly over a hive of plastic-screened office cubicles. Her section of twelve Ghosts dispersed in firing positions over the three connected offices that dominated the Accounting floor–and the crimson bodies of a dozen Renraku Corpsec. The humans' attack had been bold, but not wise or well-supported; a great many Awakened and mundane beasts displayed more sense. All had been shot in the head and heart or burnt down. Those that ran had hit the magical traps she had prepared. Tangled by invisible vines or glued in place, they had also been swiftly eliminated.
A wall-print full of ugly, sword-brandishing samurai glared down on the bloody scene, Lowther, the scarred, veteran sword-adept crouched at Morgan's side, had informed her that it showed the Battle of Sekigahara, by which Japan had been unified. Appropriately enough, he noted, the outcome had been decided by treachery.
"For undertaking such a mission without the knowledge of the Council, we also might be called traitors," Morgan didn't know why she'd said it, "Yet, considering the oath we swore to Tir Tairngire and the Black Banner–considering vereb'he, our peoples' destiny, and our lieutenant's wonderous vision of it–I feel there are worse things than a traitor one may be."
"Doubtless–a victim, for instance. Though I would rather call us free and gallant heroes, protecting a free and happy land, unlike those miserable corporate slaves."
Setting down in front of the only upwards stairs unblocked by turrets, and waiting for the goronit hordes to charge in, had not been without tension. All special forces have a punishing turnover rate; the younger Ghosts on their first deployment outside the homeland certainly looked calmer and happier after shooting down some eyeblights. A few were even mouthing a popular Tir song, supposedly from the Fourth Age, which happened to appropriately share its tune with 'Men of Harlech'.
Morgan was more concerned that the three-elf fireteam she'd sent out had returned one short–that spoiling attack had been culpable hubris on her part. With Desorn almost upon his target, their next offensive would be in full force, as soon as the Corpsec corpses had been hidden to obscure their location.
The hooded elves in rough, nondescript kevlar, faces beautiful and serene as killing angels, swiftly hefted the bodies into sub-offices or under desks; adept-powers and cyberlimbs made it light work. Several hiding places were occupied already by huddles of petrified wageslaves, suits oozing sweat. Either a raised finger ensured silence, or a silenced spray of bullets.
They were the wolves that guarded the flock, the peace of Tir. Morgan knew too well, it was better than being something men only noticed to use, or being shot down among your team and the ruin of a great mission. Failure had almost shattered her spirit as bullets had broken her body. She would have fled and buried her life in a desk job in Tir, a true and worthless ghost, except that Desorn had saved her. His quiet trust had carried her, until she could run, fight, love–all for her hero and perfect warrior, her falcon of the dawn…she'd written a lot more that no one would ever see. Whatever his feelings for her, she would fight for him. More than for Tir, land of the beautiful, where she'd never felt an hour's happiness; or felt the worth of the battlefield where she blasted Tir's hideous enemies.
After all her training, the human Tresckow might still be the stronger mage, as well as the more lovely–but she had Lowther at her back, two other combat mages and the young Cat shaman beside her. The other young Ghosts, watching out with eyes active as quicksilver; all her comrades. For Desorn, for herself, she was only afraid that Hotspur, Lei and Tresckow would escape before she could face them. They would despair as she had and die in despair. If that did not content her, nothing would.
Going on the offensive entailed shifting formation, a moment of relative vulnerability. The elves on point were scarcely surprised when FN FAL fire winged in on them, from a doorway on their right flank. Poorly aimed, but one lucky hit still put an elf down, silently gripping his thigh. A few rapid shots flung down two grey uniforms for good; anyone foe left alive on their right fell silent. As more scattered shots rained in from the centre and left.
The section matrix specialist jerked rigid and crashed out under dumpshock; they were matrix-blind. Phys-adept enhanced hearing still told them there were few hostiles ahead or on either flank, many more running up. The Watcher spirits deployed in their rear–had been banished more quietly than any wagemage could have done. A security hoverdrone was dropping from a vent; shooting the wounded elf through the chest before Morgan blasted it to atoms.
Swifly, she incinerated her comrade's corpse as well; Japanacorp wagemages would have easily linked essence and psychometric traces on it to Tir Tairngire. Supressing any outward sign of her rage completely–through long practise–she saw that her magical traps spread out before the position were glowing a vivid and visible red.
"Téch! Fragging Morkhan." Lowther spat, while more controlled bursts from Steyr AUGs conserved ammo as they extinguished lives. "We should've bought some hellhounds. Nothing like a whiff of brimstone to clear out the mobs."
"This should suffice." A Ghost mage conjured chain lightning between his hands, but Morgan blocked him.
"This is Hotspur and Tresckow's work; his leadership, her strategy. In the moment we unleash our spells on these Corpsec, they will attack. We will attack, as ordered. Sweep them away as we pass."
"Charging into their ambush, with our eyes open–"
"–and magic ready. Lei can't even have joined with them yet, but they will not leave this rabble to be destroyed, with their precious reputation as 'honourable Runners'. Whatever feint they've planned, we need only strike to find and destroy."
Lowther drew his mono-edged court sword with a smile that seemed still more thin and deadly. Responding with fearful speed to the mere signal, the Ghosts moved out.
Spindly legs loped through a conjured blast of fog, from screen to desk to doorway. Fire and advancing from cover to cover with a dance's impeccable timing–with aim perfected by smartlinks, magical blessings, and punishing practise. Fixing on terror-shaded Auras through the smoke and snuffing out every soul-light in their path.
Morgan readied her lightning for the Runners' imminent ambush–from the rear? From either flank, surely not both? Healing another unlucky comrade, gut-shot under his vest, took a bare fraction of her attention.
The surviving Corpsec ahead of them fell back from the offices to the lifts and stairwells, precipitously, but not headlong. They never stopped firing; they did not break. Morgan noted Fuchi, Renraku and Shiawase uniforms among them, and the blaze of desperate rage in their Auras above the sickly yellow of fear. Sweating guards were hauling blast shields and even desks up the stairs, throwing them down as barricades even as they fell. A very few fell of them fell down wounded–but fired on from the floor, as their wounds swiftly closed.
Morgan's eyes flared like a falcon's wing–but no, the weak Astral traces of the Heal and Aim spells went back to several sources in the stairwell and elevator hall. Wagemages, rather sensibly staying out of sight–aiming their spells using the security cams? All at Tresckow's direction, doubtless. Nor had one guard attempted to fling grenades. A measure of magic might be required, after all.
On Morgan's orders, the Ghost shaman conjured a particularly intelligent urban spirit of black smoke, which shot away to eliminate every mage in the enemy force. While two phys-adepts dashed for the wide doorway ahead–faster than rifle barrels could track, as bullets struck around their feet–with grenades already primed in their hands. A single blow would smash the foe beyond recall, and then there would only be the hunt.
–again, Morgan wasn't particularly surprised that another group of corpsec opened fire behind them at this juncture, having broken through the locked fire exit at the rear. The Ghosts darted behind the same blast shields the Corpsec had desperately thrown down in their assault, returning fire. Another half-dozen guards were down in seconds, not a single elf.
Hotspur truly had rallied a lot of other makkanagee macho idiots to follow him into death. The mindless courage of these barbarians, their persistence with these miserable little tricks…was getting very aggravating. Waving her fellow mages back, Morgan made ready to finish the rearward force with chain lightning. As the grenades burst–but not among the Corpsec, before the Ghosts, flinging them back.
A single grey uniform had dashed out from the half-broken force before them. He had attacked with the throng and fallen back, firing his rifle with poor aim but ducking from bullets with a veteran's reflex. A simple illusion fell away from Hotspur's eyes and cheeks, as the peaked guard's cap flew from head and headband.
His gaze passed over the heaped bodies of brave strangers with a samurai's dangerous sorrow. As the sword propelled by Magic Hands flew to both of his–two Ghosts collapsed in gouts of red, grenades rolling away. Hotspur kicked one down the hallway ahead; he was hilt-smashing another elf down as the second went off behind. Then he charged as a tiger charges, at Morgan's back, enveloped by the covering gunfire of Corpsec.
Before Morgan could turn, Lowther flashed past her, straight sword whipping up to meet the katana. Neither adept ever broke from a dead run, with bullets from both sides thundering round them. Guard fell with their guns still blazing into the floor, a Flamestrike burst on Hotspur's Kii-shield. Wounded Ghosts scrambled for Healings, medkits and any clear conception of how matters had flown from their control. All Lowther knew through his entire straining spirit was that the point beats the edge–and they would both have a single blow, to kill or die.
The elf's thrust went out like a basilisk's gaze. The monoblade would slam through to the hilt, flick out through Hotspur's shoulder, carved him nearly in half. If Hotspur had moved to strike–with every fibre of strength and spirit, he dropped and spun beneath. Planted his feet, slashed through Lowther's back, then rolled and ran. Bullets clipped his arms but Healing flashed over him, a Firewall flashed up behind. Lowther swayed as his blood poured, then made a run for cover. FN FAL bursts threw him down riddled with lead. The Slow spell aimed at Hotspur would have brought him down the same way–but fizzled, as the Ghost shaman hit the deck under Ilsa's fireball, burning and stunned next to a mage's roasted body.
In a common Fuchi guard's grey tunic and Kelvar, Ilsa Tresckow waved away a full strength Lightning and would've blasted the shaman to ash–but a long scream of hatred flew from Morgan's lips and her eyes blazed white. Even as Ilsa Countered, barely, the blast of pure mana scoured flesh from her arms. Flung her back against the wall, where she rolled to a doorway's cover. A Flamestrike already shooting from her hand and bursting on Morgan's palm.
A storm of white-hot mana and lightning fell on Ilsa with the sound of a forest being stripped off a hillside. She had to Counterspell the shocks that would've stunned her, and Heal through the dull, overwhelming pain of the rest. She stumbled further back into a corner office, under a barrage of magic that would've wiped out all the Corpsec they might've gathered in mere moments.
As the magic users fell upon Ilsa, the surviving Ghosts coolly dug in and fired on; advance checked they could only thin and pin the Corpsec force with what remained of their ammo. The Corpsec bled, died and hung grimly on, but too many from all four Japanacorps had pounded in to be held under fire. Many brave souls, Hotspur among them, crawled at a rush through the offices to get civilians out. The Japanese captain and the little wagemage had both been killed in the assault, but the female guard got to the server room where her wife had hidden; held her firm as love and death.
-0-
Outside the same secretive lab where Hotspur and Ilsa had once fought Aztechnology's blood mages, Desorn's strike section had faced a squad of Mitsuhama security wizards, on a par with the fabled Research Unit 13. It had been a difficult fight–almost the toughest–and three of his comrades had gone down with innards ground to mush, in addition to their casualty from the Red Samurai. Still, the last spell had burst before Desorn's face, on his Kii-shield, as his knife hand burst through the human's throat. Dark, furious Japanese eyes stared for a moment, before the wagemage crumpled down.
"Tough day, right?" Greenwood quipped. She'd come through with minor burns; the wound in Desorn's side was more severe. The other four Ghosts looked grim, but absolutely unbroken. They would be exfiltrating through an army of Japanese Marines after this; such endurance was demanded of the Black Banner on every mission worthy of their training and talent.
Though nothing motivated a vigorous breakout like an accomplished objective. Between Desorn and the Director of Mitsuhama NA there was only a security barrier, a short staircase, and a half-dozen trivial bodyguards trapped in the executive conference room with their masters. Whether Greenwood shot the old man through the chink of a door, or Desorn himself walked up in the guise of a Shiawase wageslave, there would be no detection, no failure. No future for the Japanese foothold in America but ruin. Nothing any of them had sacrificed mattered, next to such a coup.
"Rowan, my friend? We have reached the objective. Retract the barrier on the stairway to floor sixty-six, if you please."
"…I am sorry, sir. I can't do that."
After the disaster of the Armoury, even when Danvers had burnt up like a marshmallow, Rowan's voice had been level as a perfect operative, that was now broken with anguish and shame. Desorn stood and stared at the black plascrete barrier, impenetrable even to combat magic, before repeating himself.
"We've hit the Japanacorps harder than they've ever been hit, devastated the heart of their stronghold…but too much has got too fragged up. The Marines are locking down the Pyramid, there's an army set down outside–if even one of you gets captured, one body, after assassinating Mitsuhama's Director, it'll mean the end for Tir Tairngire itself. For the future of the elvish race. You understand, we can't possibly risk that?"
"To gain the world, pure as it once was, and as Tir will make it again, much must be risked. Warrant Officer Rowan? I order you to open this barrier."
"…I have superior orders, sir. From a Prince of the Council."
"Bulldrek!" Greenwood spat, "This was our own mission, the Council never knew…unless that fragging slot Knightmare–!"
"It would be rather unfortunate if the one outsider we brought into our plans transpired to be an informer for...this certain Prince." Desorn's voice was flat and fatal as the centre of a desert, "It would be less surprising if one of the first deep cover operatives posted to San Francisco–the very first–was assigned in secret to directly inform this Prince of all our actions. Well, Rowan?"
"I…I am sorry, sir. I swore the Ghost Circle oath, the same as you–we might die for the mission, but never betray our brothers, guardian Ghosts of Tir. I'm damned, I've been damned all these years...but there's only one choice worse than making a deal with a dragon. When that dragon is your lord, knows where your family live…! That goes for all of you…you've got to walk away, sir. I'm sorry."
Lowri Greenwood punched the wall several times; she called Rowan and Lofwyr every filthy name under the sun. The eyes of the other Ghosts never left Desorn, who didn't move a muscle. Until he turned with a strange smile on his face.
"The only other staircase is still guarded, I presume?"
"Another bloody Red Samurai team. Sir, you can't–!"
"So many Samurai…of course, that does suggest what Lord Lofwyr had in mind. What exactly that wyrm sold out the triumph of Tir for."
"What? Sir, I don't give a téch if we can't break through! Our comrades didn't die for us to give up now! Didn't die just to break some drek and make the Japs look stupid, ROWAN! Téch our families, frag the future, we're the fragging Ghosts of Tir! Kill the target get out alive, all that fragging matters!"
"Can I entrust the second of those imperatives to you, Lowri?"
"What the frag…?"
"There is an airvent running up from three floors below, to the floor above. It will take a little more time, and it is not well positioned for escape…but it will suffice to complete this mission. It will be the greatest honour of all, to have fought for the bright destiny of our Land of Promise, vereb'he, at your side, my brothers and sisters. Lowri, do your utmost to ensure that Morgan, her squad and everyone else get clear…it will only take one Ghost to finish what will begin so much."
Greenwood threw her arms around Desorn, fiercely grinding her delectable body into his chest. He gently patted her shoulder. One of the other Ghosts was weeping, and all were stone-faced; Desorn quickly exchanged the secret handshake of the Ghost Circle with each of them. Lowri Greenwood silently promised herself she would do her fraggingest for them–unless there was any chance on her way out to finally gun down Lei, Hotspur and Tresckow.
Rowan whistled a few bars from Ode to Joy, to keep his spirits up, then set off towards his final chance. There was nothing from Rowan but bleak silence. Nothing in Desorn's beautiful, slender face of what he had given up for a dream of his nation's future; nothing at all. The full offering of self was already burning on the altar of zathian, the Carromeleg's fabled death trance. Tir Tairngire, of course, had impressed vereb'he upon his heart…but perhaps he'd never understood what one dreamer could do with the future, until he'd come to San Francisco.
-0-
A magical duel is something like a card game that uses flamethrowers or a Judo match involving chainsaws. Vast reality-splitting powers balanced and worked on one hand's fingers, while the off-hand weaves counterspells as if strangling serpents of fire. The mouth runs raw under a stream of incantations mixed with curses; the mind grapples with perilous speed through more movement and counters than reality itself might ever hold.
A huge six-winged spirit burst from air before the shaman, with the scent of wet grass and honeysuckle rolling over burning fabrics and meat. Ilsa threw down a mid-rank fire fetish she'd picked up with her disguise; it would not last long but she could not turn aside. A net of mana was hurtling at her, a bolt of lightning with deadly force–she Countered the bolt, went down under the net. Forced in a Dispel to shatter it, between desperate, repeated Counterspells–immobilised, in this fight, would quickly spell dead. Against three enraged and expert Tir spellcasters, there was little she could do but defend.
While hurling combat spells like rain with her fellow mage–Ilsa perceived–Morgan was working up a far more powerful domination spell in barely connected snatches. That showed impressive magical skill. The complex Counter to such a complex spell would get her swiftly blasted to ash. Magic Fingers stabbed at Morgan's throat, and the magic she had gathered fell apart.
Hands flickered out spells like fire, both with Hasted speed. The Ghosts' barrage of magic began to wear down Ilsa's power with her body; her mana reserves were vast, but she was one woman, and it would take nothing but time. Alys Morgan's face was transfigured–beautiful in its terrifying passion, Ilsa thought. She wished she could have fought the proper duel with Morgan that a foe with such skill, spirit and just cause for revenge deserved. Particularly as she would not have lost. Still, she hoped the plain elf perceived the respect in her eyes, that Ilsa truly felt for her as a wizard, woman and fighter of purpose. It might comfort her through what she was about to face.
Ball Lightnings flew at her again; she barely had strength to counter left. So she burnt every drop of mana that wouldn't drop her down unconscious, in a deflection that was half a counter and wholly a masterwork. Eye-searing white blasts exploded on both sides of Ilsa Tresckow. When it cleared, she had vanished, three busy minutes after she'd put in her appearance.
Hotspur was wounded, Tresckow crippled with manadrain; they would be hunted down, they would be killed. Morgan's head whipped around, weary but straining for victory-as an IJM snipers bullet punched through her forehead.
There had never been a chance two shadowrunners, however good, could beat a dozen Ghosts of Tir. They had merely held the Ghosts up for some minutes; now the Corpsec were rapidly falling back, and a new force in black milspec armour were rushing onto the floor from every side.
The Marines knew the reputation of the Ghosts–as carefully as they had swept the lower floors for ambushes, they had cut off every route of escape on every side, twice over. Hound rotorcraft had disgorged IJN Special Forces–quick, elite young men with HK-227 SMGs, Guardian hoverdrones and eyes of frozen steel.
Decimated and surrounded, the Ghosts still fought unbroken to the end. The adepts saw more grenade launchers than they could ever . The shaman and mage blasted back squads with their Lightning and summoned spirits, until collapsing with manadrain; then they drew handguns and headshot charging marines from the floor. When Greenwood's squad fell on the Marines rear, pouring magic and bullets, a couple of wounded Ghosts even managed to slip through the net. Pvt Lowri Greenwood was still smiling on a half-dozen dead marines, when SMG fire riddled her back.
The death of their nakama filled the Imperial Marines with nothing but resolute fury. They poured automatic fire into the svelte, beautiful bodies of those elves who had failed to burn themselves up, until there was little more than blood. It was a tremendous, vicious battle with over fifty metahumans killed in a little space. Finally, an IJM Special Forces captain stood over the Corpsec dead and incinerated elves, raising his fist.
"BANZAI! BANZAI! BANZAI!"
Long before these cheers rang out, Hotspur and Ilsa had fled with the surviving Corpsec, and surrendered themselves to arrest. As many of the Corpsec and wageslaves as had survived knew who they owed that to; they were very willing to get them away from the Marines alive and get away from any more fighting themselves. Their corporate masters had also ordered by now that Kali's associates should be taken alive for questioning. Especially her personal decker.
On the way up to join with Ilsa and Hotspur, Hailey had found another jackpoint and dived in to keep up her matrix support. The Pyramid's corp deckers had traced her location, and a squad of Mitsuhama Corpsec had descended on it. Surrendering as instructed, Hasagawa had been knocked out with a shock baton. Hailey had been pulled off her jackpoint; blindfolded and handcuffed in the throes of dumpshock. Dragged down to such an unmarked black Citymaster as she knew took shadowrunners to extraterritorial landfills, or piers, or blacksite prisons they would only emerge from broken in mind and body.
-0-
While the lower floors rang with the cheers of marines, Desorn slid on through a narrow airvent towards the Mitsuhama Director, with no more impediments before him than a tight squeeze and hard climb. Elvishly thin as he was, he would have moved painfully slowly without adept Wallrunning; hand over hand, his palm adhered to the holdless steel. Unwaif-like as she was, apart from her claustrophobia, Lei must have found this route extremely difficult even with Wallrunning–
–so Desorn thought, then knew from his own direct observation.
In a small executive lounge one floor from the top of the Pyramid, a grating flew from a wall; Desorn leapt out like an uncoiling snake. Dropping from a vent in the next room, Fighter rushed to confront the Ghost.
She'd discarded her Kelvar-lined duster; scars moved with the tensing muscles on her bare arms, while her chest moved deep and steady under the milspec vest. After the day she'd had with her chummers, her eyes had all the fury of a tiger loosed from a cage, mastered and weaponised by the will of a physical adept. Desorn smiled calmly as if this was an unexpected meeting between chummers, though his eyes were empty as death.
"Evading you would be trivial, but you might say I'm late for an appointment with destiny. Doubtless, you know my destination. Was this the same route to the top floor you used to assassinate Tooms, that Aztechnology director?"
Very visibly, Fighter was unimpressed. With a fist on one hip she looked grimly on Desorn as a proud, bad kid, like a mother beleaguered and enduring as the world.
"Yeah, that drekhead Shavarus wasn't crawling up any vents. Chip truth, I'd give a lot to forget two weeks of crawling in the dark–every minute under a monster's claw. Every second I had to fix in my mind, every word and plan, because maybe Ilsa could save this city with it. Didn't mean I was stronger, I just suffered. Had to. Because this dumb boy from Redmond told me we'd be heroes."
"Indeed, you have suffered much, as have me and mine. A great deal of trouble, pain and indignity would have been spared, if you had simply let go and died some time ago."
"You sicced the Marines on us; that's what fragged you. You got hoist by your own pothead."
"...our own petard. Tresckow was almost a worthy foe, but do you even know what cause you fight for? Revenge? Glory?"
"That was Harry's drug, before I gave him all of me. No glory's worth that pain, no bulldrek shining future–only millions of simple, struggling lives. Revenge? My husband cut Shavarus to shreds, I watched him beg for his drekky life. Wasn't worth fighting for–but my father is."
"What? I must confess, I've killed so many that I don't recall...?"
"Before Harry told me we were heroes, my father told me I was a martial artist. Six generations of masters, four thousand years of wisdom, sweat and blood. And life, my life, and you've beaten me every time we've met. I've been waiting four years, twenty years, for a real fight; an adept worthy of my father's Kung Fu and my family's honour. Also, you're a murdering fragger who deserves to die."
Desorn did not speak, or smile. For the first time, Fighter saw open rage in his eyes–as if drawn from the tsunami of Ki that rushed down the living masterwork Tir had made of his limbs. The perfect Ghost, her ultimate enemy...Fighter smoothly formed spears of Ki down to twin knife-hands, shifting her weight back into the Cat stance with a terribly glorious smile. Desorn flowed into a void stance; arms crossing his chest, half-hidden. His body loose and unreadable, but filled with threads of power, ready to snap taut.
Above the City, in the peak of power above the world, with hostile Corpsec thundering up to geek them both...they held back a moment, for the battle to be decided in their spirits.
As Orion had taught her throughout the Agency's hellish training, as her father had taught her since she'd been three, Susan emptied herself and stilled her spirit. To die and never feel Harry's touch again was still fear in her, even now. No fear of rape this time, thank frag, but death and defeat together would be worse. Faster than any human adept, training and years of combat towering over her own-even if she had a chance, she'd never get back to her chummers alive. But Harry, Ilsa and Hailey would live, a war might be turned away. It didn't matter if she lived or died, only that she fought to the end. She was nothing but ki and muscle, fists and feet and watchful eyes. Nothing but a Fighter.
For his noble mission, always and everything, Desorn knew he could not die here, should not even fight. His life for the future of Tir-but his cold, withered heart swelled and screamed for revenge, at last, to destroy this shallow, selfish woman who stood in the way of his dreams. While his comrades died to the Japanese Marines that should have given her a torturous death! When the whole polluted Sixth World was Tir's enemy, that he had been trained to kill, hatred was a dangerous thing. So easy to kill, to die...with a tremendous effort of will, Desorn drew back from Zathien. He would live and conquer; kill Lei, the Director and every single enemy of elfkind within this bastion of evil. It felt so much better than duty to finally do what felt right.
The Cat stance stakes all on the front snap kick. The pride and strength of Carromoleg were elaborate stances, ranging kicks. Lei meant to prove she did not fear his strength; he would show her she had reason to. Carromoleg, the strength of the elves, had been old when Kung Fu was young.
Faster than a leaping landmine or the blast of it, Desorn sprang above Fighter with a kick to shatter skulls. Outranging her snap kick, too fast to block-but Fighter had brought up her front leg into Crane stance. Her back leg shot vertically upwards as the front dropped; her whole body dropped backwards as kicks clashed like titan swords in ringing air.
She fell back on her palm; fired down Ki in a rocket's blast. Flew up horizontally, spinning like a rifle barrel, volleying kicks against Desorn's kicks. Knife-thin foot-swords smacked at her iron thighs, as they rose together. A day of battle, confusion and loss had battered them both bloody, but they fought with the strength that only phys-adepts can pour out. At the top of the world, and rising.
Fighter's feet hit the ceiling in a low lunging stance; Desorn hung from the smooth metal by Ki-filled fingers. The thin, scowling face spun back from her Killing Fist. With long hair flying, both hands circling over the ceiling, the elf swung a deadly wheel of kicks against Fighter from every side. Beyond her reach; the foot that would've cracked her skull still split her cheek as she caught it.
Desorn wrenched, Fighter hung on; both of them crashed down to the deck. Winded and bleeding, Fighter still surged up-he was fast, she was tough, this was her one chance to close distance! The elf was still down, but ready. Hands sliding over wrists, propelling her aside, as her Shifu had done so many times! Barely checking the headlong fall, on all fours, Fighter twisted a back kick into Desorn's face, then spun about to close and grapple. No thought of Harry or Ilsa now, or life and death. This was what it was to fight, the nature of the beast. You kept fighting, even as you fell and crawled. All the way to the top of the world, and then you fought on.
But Desorn had learnt and mastered more than Carromoleg. Stinging knife-hands struck knife-hands; Fighter's strikes and chops did not touch his eyes, sternum, neck. Then an Aikido move pinned her face down, Desorn drew back his fist-she had to twist and howl like a wolf in a trap, guarding her nape, until her boot arched back above her, into the Ghost's back. Her arm had a moment to get free, hammer back an elbow into her foe's svelte, muscle-sheathed chest, until Desorn backflipped off and away. He was strong, unbelievably strong for an elf, but she was strong and there was fire in her guts. He'd had no decisive advantage in grappling; it was at distance, on his feet, that he would annihilate her.
Barely, she ducked the first iron-whip spinning kick. Straight into a back kick, as Desorn dropped to floor level, that smashed her guard back against her face, sent her sprawling. He jumped above her leg sweep, stamped down; less than barely, she rolled away and flipped up. The Ghost adept flew across the room's minibar and sofas, from celling to floor, kicking down from every side until her face oozed with dirty blood. Too fast for her low kicks to slide through his back leg-as bullets, speed gave more power than mass-pulping and splitting flesh even as she blocked!
Only Adept Resistance dulled the pain and kept her afoot. She punched out a fist of invisible Ki; blood flew from the elf's mouth, but she charged into a thrust that laid open her cheek. She fell back, firing out the rest of her Ki, but he dodged each missile without a sweat. A leg axed down through her guard, span into a straight that would've lodged between her ribs. She couldn't read his strange, spinning moves; could only read in those nova-bright violet eyes that he read her, was playing with her, but no more.
One blow from a Killing Fist could end an adept's fight in moments. One tap on a pressure point-Fighter was desperately warding hers. After killing so long for Tir without desire or emotion, now diving headlong into sweet revenge, Desorn would have been more than superelven to not torment the woman who'd so frustrated him. A vulpine smile was on his lips, as Fighter ground her teeth for rage and shame, but now she had struck him, it was over. His feet were hemming her in, leading her to the single blow that would kill. Defeat her, and everything she had fought to be. She would end her last shadowrun like her first, broken in the darkness…
No. No! NO! Four years, every fight she'd come out of stronger! Stronger than her power he'd read, stronger than Susan Lei! She'd come here to win, not die! She did not want to die…
…the rat bursting from the trap, so consumed with desire to live and be, no cat could kill her, read her, withstand her. One with life itself. Indifference to life and death, the heart of courage and martial enlightenment; she'd always been told, never truly understood...there was no gate, only a hundred roads. Passionately, desperately, utterly, she would fight to live...not turning from battle, holding nothing back. For her, her whole life, to live was to fight.
Desorn noted the utter relaxation of Fighter stance. Readied himself to meet Zathien's fearful death-embracing assault...no, it was not Zathien in her eyes. His instincts howled-her bloody face swayed back from the fatal kick he swung, as if in a trance. Then she was leaping past his right side, with perfect timing as he struck again; her instep striking under his thigh in mid kick and flinging him down.
Flipping back to his feet, she was lunging in close, past the reach of his legs! He struck two star-bursts of Ki aside; two more blows crunched through his elegant jaw, as knife-strikes barraged his eyes and solar plexus. Another elf would've been dead before he fell-but more than even his armour of Ki, the iron will of Tir's guardian Ghosts kept Desorn afoot.
His counterstrike, that could've shattered wood with an open hand through pure velocity, hit Fighter in the face. She staggered back, groaning and swaying, ready to fall-planted her feet, threw out her guard, screamed out with her spirit. Desorn could hear armoured footfalls, thundering closer-while she still screamed out, he filled his foot-sword with Ki and span out a final kick.
In a perfectly lived moment, Fighter caught Desorn's slim leg with one power-filled hand. Her fist hooked up into the knee with a crack, because it was what she had to do to live. Then she took the Ghost's other leg out, caught him with both hands, and flung him into a drinks cabinet like a skinny ragdoll.
Her head hurt like frag. She was alive...it was a Ghost, she had to make sure the fragger was geeked. She trudged to Desorn's sprawled, broken body, dark fanned out over a bed of broken glass and Scotch, with nothing but ringing in her ears. She straddled him, drew back a fist- and Desorn's fingers stabbed up at a pressure point under her arm, like a dying scorpion. Fighter dropped down in a ball, fighting to breathe.
"...tough day. Ahahaha...! Tough day!"
The Ghost could have risen, and then Susan would have never risen–but before he could, the thundering of armour was outside, a Red Samurai bursting through the door. Rolling away from the shotgun blast, down a stairway, Desorn was gone. The sound of gunfire followed him.
"Saru, deal with the shadowrunner!" Roared the metallic voice of a Red Samurai captain. "The Daisy Eater won't get far!"
The Red Samurai, Saru, looked down at Fighter. Hit her reverse pressure point with his shotgun barrel. As soon as Fighter could breathe she was groaning, almost screaming. She was alive, but down on the ground, defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.
Like all special forces, the Red Samurai are not accustomed to taking prisoners, Without having seen her fight, however, Saru could see how this shadowrunner had fought against the Tir. He turned his combat shotgun away from her, then brought down the stock to knock her unconscious.