"…the thin atmosphere (of Gold Rush-era Nevada) seemed to carry healing to gunshot wounds, and therefore, to simply shoot your adversary through both lungs was a thing not likely to afford you any permanent satisfaction...for he would be nearly certain to be around looking for you within the month, and not with an opera glass, either."
–Mark Twain, Roughing It
Longevity is a great disadvantage in Continuous Hell
-Chinese proverb
"Security. Trust. The victory of our heaven-born civilisation over chaos. All honest SINers desire these; truly, they are the goods we trade in. Gentlemen…do you believe, this day, our mission in San Francisco has displayed these qualities to the natives? Or, that you have shamed us, before the world!"
Spittle flew from the Fuchi California director's mouth onto the holoscreen, where Colonel Saito remained rigid at attention. His superior, General Anjo, stared from another screen; a toothbrush moustache, replugged hairline, and dress greens heavier with sweat than braid.
"Half of our best security are dead," The Fuchi director raged on, "Our valued workers, our people, gunned down within our own archology! Or so burnt with magic, assigning the cost of the clean-up will almost cost more than the clean-up itself! The Pyramid, symbol of our control in San Francisco, was violated by invasion! Wrecked turrets and barriers all the way up, millions of nyuyen in damage, A FUCKING GREAT HOLE IN THE SIDE OF OUR BUILDING! The whole City is a warzone, paralysed by terror–we would stand to lose millions more in consumer nyuyen over the coming weeks, even if the most profitable megaclub in town had not also been invaded! The share price of four triple-A corporations only stopped falling five minutes ago. Do you understand what that means for the world, for our nation? How do you intend to take responsibility for this?"
Fuchi's closing turn of phrase carried particular weight in Japanese; taking responsibility had historically been done with a knife. Passing years had altered the ritual, but not the principle that unworthy human members must be cut off from the pure and unassailable corporate body.
The four Japanacorps Directors still sat in the high little room where their would-be assassins had confined them; powerlessness had not been an experience they had enjoyed. Fuchi had ordered a stiff drink, which still had not arrived; his face was a very unsettling colour. Shiawase's African-American director maintained a stoic front, as did Renraku and Mitsuhama. Only specks of fire beneath greying eyebrows betrayed what they were restraining, perhaps for a few more seconds.
"…gentlemen…my old friends…" General Anjo managed, "…I apologise unreservedly on behalf of Major Yamanami, IJM Airborne Forces, who was responsible for the deployment of rotorcraft. He has already atoned for his error with his life, as an honourable Imperial Marine."
This, also, was a familiar move in the game–a great many samurai before the luckless major had dispatched themselves at swordpoint, for a promise that their memory and their families would be spared. Certainly, it was a shuffling familiar to Renraku.
"DO YOU THINK WE'RE FOOLS? SHINEE, KONOYAROU!"
Anjo bobbed his head, grovelling like a bad schoolboy before the fat old corper's fury. Saito turned away–the general didn't dare to look at him. The face of the occupation, hero of San Francisco through every uprising; idol of his soldiers and the Japanese public, thanks to laudatory Corp-owned newsfeeds and trideo. No one who stood in Colonel Saito's way lived long enough to regret it.
"At this moment, we might have been advising the Defence Minister to load you with decorations," Mitsuhama's voice was unsettlingly quiet, "Had your response to our request for your aid, against a major terrorist assault, possessed any semblance of finesse."
"Request…? Oh, yes, yes, your request! Of course, it would otherwise be out of the question, utterly out of the question, that your sacred extraterritorial soil would be violated, unless you wished it to be…!"
"Shut up now, Hiro. You will confirm this on the evening trideo news; you will offer a public apology for this whole fiasco, and your resignation." Anjo looked as if he was going to be sick. "For your silence, you won't starve."
"Surely, after all we've been through...my support in numerous little matters…?"
Desperately mugging, Hiro Anjo tried to remind the directors of mafia and meta-owned businesses broken up by his troops. The deputy directorship he'd been promised, post-retirement, for his assistance to Shiawase in securing that LMG contract…?
Shiawase averted his eyes; the gazes of the other directors did not move a micrometre.
"A position on a military think-tank would be most suitable for your retirement." Mitsuhama's words were droplets of poison, "It would be most lucrative, and require nothing more strenuous than regular appearances on military trideo shows. Your reputation–such as remains of it–will remain in the public eye for some time to come."
Anjo could already see the memes; he would be the laughingstock of the Sixth World. He bowed very low and barely severed the connection before he burst into tears.
"Now then, Keiji." Mitsuhama turned to Colonel Saito, steepling thin fingers, "What have you to say, regarding this outrage in the heart of our city?"
"Excellency. I say that this city stands in need of a heart transplant! The conspiracy between Tir Tairngire and your own trusted associate, Kali, must be rooted out with pure Japanese steel and fire! I cannot accept your gratitude, for purging elvish evil from the Pyramid itself, while that damnable woman and her shadowrunners still draw breath!"
Saito face flushed red with fiery blood; he might have seemed an image of the incorruptible, uncompromising hero, to a less than subtle observer. Mitsuhama North America's director was a balding little man who resembled a monkey, but the corkscrew gleam in his wary eyes evoked a latter-day Hideyoshi.
"That Kali woman?" Shiawase turned his gaze on Mitsuhama–hitherto the dominant Japanacorp in San Francisco, "This does explain how the Daisy Eaters infiltrated our stronghold. I recall warning you she might prove a dangerous ally..."
"Reports indicate that her shadowrunners–I must commend my colleagues of Fuchi and Renraku on their capture–fought against the attackers."
"Treachery among criminals!"
"Possibly." Renraku raised a chubby forefinger, "Kali's Runners first aid the elves in their outrageous attack, betray them, then reap the glory and our gratitude. Our support for their very suspect and uncertain defence of north Calfree…"
"Bakabakashii!" Fuchi snapped, "Is there any question of the threat the keeblers pose, after today?"
"I meant, that treachery nearer to home may be of greater concern."
"We have seen no evidence of Kali's involvement. Or Tir Tairngire's, as yet."
"I trust that I may assist with that!"
With a savage nod to an IJM technical officer offscreen, Saito presented the Megacorp directors with the footage from Kali's private office at Eclipse. They watched Kali, Hotspur, Fighter and Tresckow discussing at length, with two known Tir agents, the most suitable way to hand over San Francisco.
The shadowrunners spoke fervently about freeing an American city; Hotspur about justice and glory, Fighter about the hateful cruelty of Megacorps and Marines. Kali and Ilsa were more reserved about their motives, but clearly expected considerable gain. A more complete or convenient proof couldn't have been wished for.
"Has this footage been verified?"
Saito swore that, though the original security footage from Eclipse had been wiped, the clip had been rigorously checked for manipulation. The directors rather doubted that. Still, in the Pyramid's basement levels, teams of dataslaves attending on the conference call had already confirmed the footage with advanced analysis. Complete Knowbot analysis would be arranged and completed within hours. Long before that politics, rather than science, would have determined what kings or heroes would fall to this dramatic day.
Shiawase proposed that Kali's Runners might give up her location. Renraku and Fuchi cheerfully confirmed their readiness to personally interrogate these 'daring and desperate rogues'–apart from the interest, all of them wanted to hear at once and together whatever the traitors could be persuaded to say about Mitsuhama's involvement. With a brief note of caution regarding personal danger, which was roundly dismissed, Mitsuhama offered his agreement with remarkable calm for a man with a very long way to fall.
-0-
The conference had moved down a few floors to a larger room, conveniently accommodating several Corpsec squads and two Red Samurai (Saito's vidcall had been placed on hold). There were also fewer hardwood tables and plush carpets for Hotspur and Ilsa to bleed on. His bullet wounds and her burns had scarcely been dressed before they'd been led up; unbound, but palpably unfree.
With his trademark bandana cut through by Lowther's sword, it was a blood-red bandage on Hotspur's brow. His armour was torn and stank with a long day's sweat. He still faced the four old men with tailored Heritage suits, shirts that cost more than his burner commlink, and the power to dispose of nations and lives as they wished, with a straight back and measuring gaze.
The directors took his measure, as well. A talented boy, clearly, with fire in his heart and icy decision in his eyes–he most probably had done most of what was related of him. A singular human being, however, while each one of them was a Megacorp; more than any human. Four world-binding leviathans, bloated with the lives and subordinated liberty of millions, facing...a mere dangerous wild animal, in the grand scheme.
"The famous Hotspur. 'Alive, a kingdom were too small for thee…'" Renraku smugly omitted the counterpoint; once dead, two paces of earth would suffice, "Though you have been of some use to us in the past, I fear–"
"Where's my wife, omae? I think some people here owe her something for saving their lives."
"We have her. As I was saying–"
"Shut up. Listen."
Renraku…shut up and listened, though he couldn't believe or understand it. There was no threat in Hotspur's voice–corpsec bullets would have snuffed out anything of the kind. He spoke with careful assurance, burning at the edges, as if fervently trying to talk the directors out of something unbelievably stupid.
"This is not a negotiation. Not this, not her. When you bring my wife here, safe, we can talk, and then if I die, I die, but I die with her–or else I'm ready to die, right now. I know there's a million things you could give me, for saving your people and your Pyramid, but she's all I want. All I need. Susan, my Fighter! Safe…! Just let me see her. I'm at the end of my rope here."
A dozen guns were trained on Hotspur, but unfired. Ilsa's face was unreadable, as she stood with him. Staring back, the four directors saw a desperate man. Desperate with starving, simple human need, that would kill or die before his love was taken from him. There was fear for her in those shining eyes and grinding teeth, but no such personal fear as the directors felt, very suddenly. With the understanding that you cannot negotiate with wild beasts, rogue males or humans ready to die.
"He doesn't know what he's saying, excellency!" Insisted the female guard who'd fought the Tir beside Hotspur and Ilsa, bobbing her head as she aimed her Fichetti, "Stress of combat, and almost getting geeked to frag, saving anyone down there who got saved."
"More of your colleagues would now be alive," Fuchi hissed, "If you had waited for the Marines, instead of conducting a suicide charge without orders. A most grave responsibility….Corporal Simmons."
Nance Simmons went ashen in the face as her grey Fuchi uniform. She couldn't imagine how many human experiments and organs it would take to pay for all her dead comrades' replacements, but she'd not be allowed to die until every possible nyuyen had been wrung from her flesh.
"The Ghosts weren't going to wait for the Marines." Hotspur spoke out, "Marines would've mowed your people down to get at the Tir, and aren't your own guards meant to protect your precious soil?"
Simply to save face, Fuchi would've called for Hotspur and Ilsa to be gunned down. If Renraku, whose forces had actually captured Fighter, had not suddenly called on his Samurai to bring her in.
"Arigatou gozaimasu, kakka." A Red Samurai carefully bowed to the waist, while her partner spoke into his helm commlink–through her mask's echo, it was a woman's voice, "That shadowrunner is worthy of her name; her wounds tell how she defended your excellency's honourable life with her own."
Hotspur made a noise between a groan and a growl, while Ilsa breathed out and sat down. Fuchi snapped at his men to clap them in irons, at least. Renraku gave a glassy, deathly grin–the commlink he held under the table had just received a message from a certain Hans Brackhaus.
"A very ordinary man then, for a shadowrunner," Shiawase commented sourly, "With surprisingly modest ambitions."
"One less, now," Hotspur boldly met his gaze, while raising his hands for the cuffs, "Even ordinary folk have to kill like rats, to live in this world, ours world–much the same as suits like you."
"'The weak are meat; the strong eat.'"
It was a hard proverb to dispute with a dozen Fichettis in your face. Hotspur had known since he was ten what happened to anyone who spoke out against the megacorps, but this wasn't a day for backing down from his dreams.
"Wasn't such a big ask, if you're strong as all that. Like clean air and water, birth citizenship, law instead of hired thugs, a bit of freedom…all reasonable, ordinary wants, omae. Oh yeah, you'd better make sure Hailey and Hasagawa are chill, or you'll be having exactly the same talk with Susan–"
At Shiawase's nod, a guard drove his rifle butt into Hotspur's stomach. Wounds bursting, he doubled up on the carpet.
"We usually make allowances for the hired help–but I don't think much of your attitude, boy. Perhaps you'd like to share a cell with your wife, in Meifumado prison on Yomi?" Chuckles from all the directors but Renraku, and several guards, "Solitary, impotent confinement–years, madness and death–will bring you to an understanding of how little right a frail, singular human has to make demands of us. If anyone in these failed states has food, water or freedom it is because of us. Because of us, you are not fighting in the streets with savage metas, over scraps of meat! Because of Shiawase, sacred, eternal, and unfailing, you exist. Corporations are not made to serve people, people exist to sustain corporations–but we are not unnecessarily cruel. Tell us where Kali is, her treachery with the Tir Keeblers–from the beginning of her association with Mitsuhama. Or the first thing your wife sees when she is brought down will be your dead body."
Shockingly white above his dark jowls, Shiawase's eyes flared with the fanaticism of power…but Ilsa was watching Renraku's face; blanched and shaking. This was a dangerous position, but she had faced A.I.s and dragons–real monsters–and sharper danger than this for the last twelve hours. Her voice was clear and confident as a lecturer when she answered Shiawase's ultimatum.
"If you kill or confine us, then any force you send to North Calfree will be opposed by hundreds of trained fighters with magical support and excellent knowledge of local terrain. In any case, Kali has not betrayed us–or how did she survive losing millions of investment nyuyen for Mitsuhama, nearly four years ago?"
Three of four directors spent a few puzzled seconds, before swivelling their chairs towards Mitsuhama. His bloodless lips formed a faint smile.
"That woman took her only path to survival. She bet her life and all her remaining funds on a desperate shadowrun, and came into possession of...certain files, on a certain project. Their release would have caused Mitsuhama Computer Technologies grave embarrassment–and I shouldn't need to remind you gentlemen how many collaborative projects we have undertaken, since setting up our shop here." Faces that had been considerably interested now grew faintly alarmed.
"It wasn't blackmail, only business." Ilsa continued, "You knew Kali is a businesswoman; as long as you gave her protection and work, the data was safe as if you still possessed it. She certainly never breathed a word to us."
"She was too valuable a contact to sacrifice. Like yourself, a most intelligent woman."
"Quite. Ergo, if she has truly gone over to the Tir, after years of costly and lucrative bridge building with Mitsuhama, her payadata would be useless as insurance. If, as I presume, it is not already all over the matrix and Trid stations…?"
"…then she's not a traitor!" Hotspur staggered up, "Wait, all her computers at Eclipse were wiped…"
"…and why did the Tir agent who accomplished this not also immediately silence her? She would not store such valuable data in the obvious place. Wherever she has concealed it, she is more likely to be found."
"But, where…?"
"That is where your young friend–Kali's personal decker–is leading an MCT matrix security team at the present moment." Mitsuhama quietly dropped the bomb, "If she cooperates, she will come to no harm."
"What?" Shiawase and Fuchi spluttered, as Mitsuhama carefully wiped his spectacles, and Hotspur violently regretted his handcuffs "Why… where…Kali's decker…?"
"MCT security apprehended her, nearly an hour ago. These shadowrunners clearly know nothing of value–they're no more Tir agents than Kali, or myself–but I thought it best to provide you with a small diversion, while my people dealt with this issue. Once captured, with her insurance files deleted, and Colonel Saito's precious footage hanging over her, Kali-san will be a far safer, more controllable asset. Certainly, unable to raise any fuss over that grisly business at Eclipse, or our future plans for the Baysprawl and Calfree. You will find, my dear Fräulein, that not only your famous Saeder-Krupp are 'One Step Ahead'. This matter should be entirely resolved in a few minutes–" His commlink sounded "–or, indeed, sooner than that."
As Fuchi and Shiawase sat back with the sour expression of players who'd been quite outplayed, Mitsuhama raised a small commlink that cost more than a decent machine gun. As he took the call, Hotspur and Ilsa strove vainly to read any sign in his face.
-0-
"…so, like, what happens if Kali already cleared out her secret sever, hours ago?"
"Then we may be able to trace her point of access. You'll be of no further use to us in any case, Runner."
"...ookie dokie."
Carefully and slowly as she could get away with, Hailey continued to suppress the layers of IC and kill-switches she'd set up herself around Kali's secret offline datastore. Bog basic, data-tunnel architecture, down a rabbithole in the back of a Mission District Chinese laundry. Where she'd directed the Mitsuhama cybersecurity team who were now standing over her meatbody with silenced Fichettis, apart from the three hooded avatars hovering above her in the matrix. She was only 'jacked in' through forehead 'trodes connected to the security captain's cyberdeck–she didn't have a single program to run or fight with, and couldn't have wiggled her little finger undetected.
"Actually, I guess Kali must've gone to ground, you know ?" Hailey chattered on, "After Eclipse got raided, and what with all the Marines charging around…she wouldn't go get this embarrassing file until it was safe. Or maybe if an alarm or something went off, and what she'd stole was about to be stolen…"
"Not until the file is destroyed, stupid girl –!"
"Um…oopsie."
Minutes ago, a silent alert had been sent to Kali's commlink, as Hailey brushed aside a trigger disguised as a Sparky IC. The Mitsuhama deckers had been alert for such a trick, ready to seize and wring dry any decker Kali sent to ensure her insurance–but not for the shining figure that appeared behind them, blasting two dataslaves out of the matrix before they could think.
The captain quickly threw up a Shield program; threw an attack at Hailey she couldn't evade, cutting her avatar off at the knees. Turned to blast the shining avatar, who deleted his Shield and threw a stunning Killjoy attack. The dark Mitsuhama avatar slumped; the bright figure above Hailey extended a hand.
"Do you require assistance, my lady?"
"Oh...not any more."
"Then, please, where is Kali's insurance file? She stands in need of it."
"Wouldn't it, like, be a bit silly of me to tell you that? Mister Whiteknight?"
As if she'd been pressing down a thicket with one hand, Hailey released the server's defences; a host of high-spec White IC launched itself at the avatar. The mystery decker cut through them all, of course, but the Mitsuhama captain had recovered by that time and desperately blew the avatar to digits.
Hailey couldn't move, but she'd made sure before the shooting started that everything needful was in arms reach. She did what she had to, before smoothly slipping back into her meat like a spacesuit.
A gun was instantly thrust in her bruised and bloodstained face. She was grinning, however, like the happiest teenage shadowrunner in the world.
"Oo, I'd be careful with that! Your captain's deck had a network connection, and if I'm not, like, alive in ten minutes…then your very embarrassing, seriously horrible file gets dumped all over the net, you know? And it'll most definitely be your responsibility…for, like, letting the novahottest decker in San Francisco get anywhere near a jackpoint."
-0-
In a flophouse on the next block, a small human woman crashed out of the matrix, heaving with dumpshock. Kali bent over her, demanding had she got the file? At the same as a warning from Hailey flashed up on Kali's commlink, and the woman–the Tir Ghost, Knightmare–thrust a small knife up at her jugular.
With elvish speed, her bodyguard–one of the 'Frisco Runners who'd got her out of Eclipse as the Marines burst in–barely broke the knife on his cyberhand. With his ork chummer, he pinned Knightmare's arms and hauled her back.
Biting and twisting like the commando she was, the Ghost would have broken free if Kali hadn't driven a purple-nailed fist into her stomach, several times. Next to the Runners, decked out in the studded synth-leather and garish hairstyles of the Shadows, the woman seemed very plain for the cause of such a nightmarish day.
"…you fragging knew all along, didn't you?"
"That you didn't find my MCT blackmail files at Eclipse. That you didn't silence me as planned because you hoped I'd lead you to them. I confess I expected Tir's agent to be–" Kali jerked her head at the elf Runner, "–but I knew they use all kinds of agents. Probably none as drekky as you. I never wanted to get that insurance file, by the by, when it would be useless as protection the minute I released it–this was all to expose you. I imagine that's how Hailey made you, in about three seconds. I don't know how I'm going to repay her."
The shadowrunners muttered about some suggestions; Kali assured them they'd be paid enough to keep them in leather jackets and hair-dye for life. She received and swiftly read a message from Hailey, explaining the full situation, and then fixed Knightmare with an acid gaze.
"Bit of a come down. From assassinating corp directors to petty blackmail?"
"The assassination plot was a fantasy. A mad dream to send a squad of elite commandoes on a suicide mission, and hurt the Corps and Marines worse than anything before it. Our Prince makes good use of his pawns–but I was never going to die for a country that calls me a stinking goronit. The Ghosts are the only way for humans born in Oregon to get serious nyuyen and power–you should know, that's what blackmailing a megacorp can get you."
"My heart bleeds, for the schemer lost in her own schemes. Although you've apparently assumed the identity of a male elf…to seduce my girl, Hailey. Haven't you heard that consent with deception is not consent?"
"In the matrix, you can be anyone you want. Even your real self." Under the furious eyes of Kali and both her Runners, Knightmare showed nothing but defiance, "Nothing like plastic ears or surgery, nothing gross and deceptive as meatspace–identity, true and pure. That was the only thing I never lied to Hailey about…in another life, things could have been different for us."
"I rather doubt it. I've wasted more than enough time with your toxic sophistries; give me the fragging original footage or these gentlemen will start with your fingers."
"Charming. I'd say I can hold out longer than you can afford–the footage isn't on my deck anymore, I'll tell you for free. Turn me loose, and you get the footage; that's my only offer."
-0-
The four directors, with their assembled guards and prisoners, watched the incriminating footage from Kali's office, again. This time side by side with office security footage of Fighter and Kali, meeting to discuss her record contract, and yet another interview with Hotspur and Ilsa, regarding the rescue of Fighter from Shavarus. It couldn't have been clearer that Knightmare had spliced the two clips together, to get all four 'traitors' in the same room, then pasted over Kali's bodyguards–Hasagawa, and poor Ishikawa–with the figures of two Tir agents known to corporate intelligence divisions.
A rapid series of clips followed, from a speeding Komatsu's external cams to the deadly floor-by-floor battle for the Pyramid–leaving no doubt of the terror and chaos unleashed by the cheapest trick in the book. Hailey had retrieved the cyberdeck she'd already used to such tremendous effect, and even signed her work in sparkling neon pink at the end.
Dying was for common people–the directors hadn't grasped how close to them the Ghosts had been stopped, or how much struggle and blood it had taken. Shiawase sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Emori the Eternal Founder.
"Manipulating six figures smoothly enough to cheat advanced analysis, synthesising an entirely new voice track; impossible for any decker but one of the very best. Although, I'm not sure the average SINer in the street would appreciate that. If it proved necessary to drop this little presentation onto every trid station in Japan…well, Saito and his backers would look like absolute fools. Hotspur, didn't I tell you that everything would be taken care of?"
Kali had taken centre screen. Ilsa had never been so glad to see that rainbow hair–or seen the indomitable music mogul so furious with anyone else. Susan and Harry had takeb in that they were saved, but otherwise taking a much-needed rest in each other's eyes. Ilsa couldn't help noting aloud that the fake footage had shown no eye contact between them at all.
"Kali-san. It does appear that we owe you a great apology."
"You owe me Keiji Saito's head on a fragging plate."
"Leave Saito to us. Of course, we will compensate you for your loss of staff, and repairs to Eclipse. The club even the Marines could not shut down should remain a lucrative asset, in the long term, although there will be no more Shadow work or black marketeering. They will be inappropriate for the new San Francisco we are creating, and also for Mitsuhama Calfree's new Entertainment Division director. I rather think you have earned it."
"…very well, but I'm seeing the Redding job through to the end."
"So ka." Fuchi interjected, "You will turn all captured footage of this debacle over to us, however. I believe we will be able to present sections, as a dramatic demonstration of the courage and comradeship that our security forces embodied in the face of terror. That will go some way to restoring confidence, and share prices…along with a personal account of her heroics by Corporal Simmons, in her new position with Fuchi trideo."
Simmons wasn't actually okay about turning her wife's near-death, and her comrades' actual deaths, into a corporate puff-piece. Until Fuchi mentioned her starting salary. His colleagues commended a sound, masterful policy–
"Have you goons already forgot that your people have been dying all day? Really geeked dead?" Hotspur wearily stabbed his finger at the wall-screen, "Like the Tir are going to geek everyone in their way, when their full army comes over the border; exactly like they meant to geek you! They're not thinking about share prices and nyuyen; to them, this war is honour, life and death. If you're going to do something like, maybe, send an army to Redding, I'd like to hear about it now. Onigaishimasu."
"We are capable of doing more than one thing at once, Hotspur," Fuchi shot back, "That is perhaps why we are ruling the world, and you run a daily risk of death for pocket nyuyen and bulldrek. Speaking of which, I suppose you'll want some small reward–?"
"Spend it on machine guns and missiles for Redding. I just want to go home and give–"
Susan lightly smacked Harry's head, before he could say something very embarrassing. Ilsa's head had been in her hands throughout the whole exchange.
"Even without proof of Tir's hand in this matter...they, not us, will most bitterly regret this day." Mitsuhama's whispering voice held more conviction than any blistering rage, "They threatened me with dishonour, which, I assure you, is death to us and more than death. As for Redding, we will immediately send further funds, arms and as many special security forces as we can rapidly deploy. Mobilisation of a major defensive force has already begun."
"How many? How soon?"
"Our reserves of manpower are limitless as our reserves of nyuyen. Two brigades, in two weeks."
"The Tir could roll out tomorrow, with panzers and rotorcraft."
"Standing armies and heavy equipment are unprofitable to maintain," Fuchi sniffed, "What do you suppose we keep Saito's finest around for?"
"Yeah, we don't want Saito taking a step outside the Baysprawl." Fighter spoke up, "If we see him and his thugs in Redding, we'll fight them there. Give us enough to hold off the Tir for a week. After that, our people should welcome a corper army riding to the rescue."
"I do trust you've been commending us to them, rather than spreading anti-corporate sentiment." Mitsuhama's tone made it clear that this was the name of a fatal disease, "We expect a return on our investment from Redding, and if our hirelings are working against that, rather than for...?"
"Sorry, just telling it like it is. We'll do our jobs. We'll do what we can. Sorry about this idiot–thank you."
Susan dipped her head, pushing Harry's head down like a stubborn schoolboy. Ilsa inclined her head a quarter-inch.
"Our sincere thanks to you, also." Mitsuhama's bow was almost imperceptible, but several of his minions gasped, "Now, if we may iron out further details via netmail…I, for one, could do with several drinks." His colleague muttered that they'd drunk to that, "Sayonara. Gambatte kudasai."
As they went down through the Pyramid, where they had fought so long for life and future, Harry threw his arms around Susan and Ilsa's shoulders. Like walking, victorious wounded holding each other up, they went to find Hailey and a Mitsuhama chartered boat away from San Francisco.
As the four directors went down past ranks of deeply bowing workers, to their limos and then a series of exclusive bars, after a hard day's work...Mitsuhama quickly confirmed that Special Purpose Team One were on their way back from Peru. Where the new President would doubtless quickly reverse his predecessor's anti-Yakuza, pro-Cartel policies.
Passionate, talented young folk, left alive to build a following of any kind, could cause appreciable disruption. The Sixth World had yet to see a living Che Guevara or Ned Kelly, and Mitsuhama was proud of the fact. If Hotspur, Fighter and Tresckow meant to do anything else in Redding but hold off the Tir, they would not live long enough to begin it.
-0-
War Prince Dar Varian, a tall elf with cropped blond hair and a face like a beautiful blade, stormed through the marble halls of the palace on Royal Hill. Opening a gold-fitted portal with his boot, he glared past High Prince Surehand to Hans Brackhaus, with raised fists.
"Listen to me, you puffed up lizard–and don't think you're getting mercy from a fellow Deutscher. Knightmare, your agent, was meant to run interference on the verdammt Japanacorp conference. Meant to keep them from any firm decision! Instead, we have a full Ghost squad wiped out, a corporate army aimed at Redding, blowback from the Japanacorps up our verdammt hoops, AND DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME YOU NEVER FORESAW THIS! What little scheme did twenty-four of my best elves die for?"
Lugh Surehand, an immortal elf unlike Dar Varian, truly understood what a Great Dragon represented–proud as he was, he barely kept from shaking in his real-leather boots. Hans Brackhaus turned golden eyes on Dar Varian without a smile. The War Prince's pale face grew paler, but he stood his ground.
"Those renegade Ghosts died for their treason, Herr Varian. Had they succeeded in assassinating the director of Mitsuhama North America, the consequence would have been chaos. Disaster, not least for this little, singular country. You yourself would have eliminated them all, had their plans come to light earlier, as would have I. The downtick in worldwide markets consequent on their recklessness has actually cost me nyuyen. Still, the four Japanese triple-A's have been materially and reputationally damaged, to an unprecedented degree–their alliance with the IJM simply devestated. Saito's Marines were the only true threat to your conquest of Calfree, and they have been removed from the board. A fortuitous triumph, I'd go so far as to say."
"Triumphs–hard won, year on year–were what raised the renown of the Black Banner to the highest level. Now, the reputation of the whole Peace Force–our shield and our pride!–has been cast down by public defeat!"
"Yes, a coup or two to restore the renown of your precious special forces may be well advised. If I might make some suggestions–?"
"–that will incidentally also gather more nyuyen for Seader Krupp?" Varian's hard-knuckled fists fiercely shook.
"If Tir also profits, does that matter?" Surehand insisted, with a ruler's aplomb.
"I'd rather prefer to lead Tir's army through Redding, and beyond. No more tricks, no more waiting. Avenge the elvish blood they shed in '37. Show the world of men how their masters fight and conquer!"
"One more week, my friend!" The High Prince pronounced, "To control the damage of this disaster in San Francisco; to ensure that neutrals will stay neutral, and that the Japanese will go further, without proof, than economic sanctions. One week, to recreate the work of years, and most likely pull every blackmail file that the Intelligence Directorate hold…and then, your lightning-swift, glorious conquest."
"An immortal's caution, your highness?"
"From long experience, beholding the mistakes of others."
"…a week. My scouts and spies in Redding report that they are fortifying the Shasta dam. A futile resistance, to justify a thorough cleansing of our rightful lands. They will come to a full understanding of the high, noble wrath of the elves. Our people will behold their birthright, to conquer and rule. Then you will see how the Ghosts of Tir restore their honour!"
Dar Varian spun on his heel and stalked off. He spent the remainder of the day stripped to the waist on livestream, beating half the palace guard into the sparring mat and setting a new record for hardwood blocks hand-broken in one hour. His livestreams were religiously watched by Tir's youth, accompanied by pages of commentary on his stances, and would have justified volumes if Tir's greatest living Carromaleg had been dull enough to expose anything of his real technique onscreen.
Come evening, the War Prince was still intolerably frustrated. His conquest of the month, a young countess, found herself alone at their assigned meeting place, and indeed never heard from him again. He barely said a word to the chambermaid he pushed into a closet face-first and took with the force and technique that truly, he believed, marked a great and noble elf.
Lugh Surehand's activities of the day were somewhat more wholesome; blackmail, bribery, the public disgrace of some young nobles who had questioned, with laughter, whether their future depended on fifty square miles of north Calfree (It did, and had done from the moment Surehand said it would be so). He certainly had no wish to remain in the company of Brackhaus, who retired to his own apartments in the palace.
Business before pleasure; Dar Varian was of use at present, and revenge most certainly best served cold when you counted the years as days. His losses with the global market downturn had been ten times less than the profit of some timely, informed, short-selling, naturally through more anonymous shell firms than even he could recall offhand.
Brackhaus was smiling as he placed a secure call to the director of Renraku Calfree. Business always came before pleasure. The hologram of Kaito Tanaka's round face clearly rendered each bead of sweat. While his colleagues were presently toasting each other's sagacity in their shirtsleeves and cutting up old touches, he had pled a sudden desire to reconnect with his family.
"The shadowrunners were turned loose, as you requested. Your final insurance, I suppose, to keep that madman Saito out of north Calfree?"
"The Kali woman would have sufficed for that purpose–she, I have not promised to kill, as yet. Those rather irritating shadowrunners remain alive for a rather different reason, though it will almost certainly end with the fall of Redding. It will be interesting to see whether I, Mitsuhama or the Tir, devour them first."
"Very well. Now, what the hell is going on, Herr Brackhaus? You did not inform me–!"
"You received enough forewarning that your famous Red Samurai might have saved the day, and your friend of Mitsuhama's life. Catching Ghosts does always require a little luck, or ingenuity. You played for high stakes; honoured as the hero of the hour, you could have wrested lucrative security contracts from Saito. Ensured that vengeance upon Tir took a monetary, Renraku-directed form, rather anything effective as military intervention in northern Calfree. Alas, you played and lost."
"We lost–!"
"Oh no; Lord Lofwyr always wins. How would your honourable colleagues respond, if they received evidence that you had known of the attack on the Pyramid in advance?"
Tanaka had used scramblers and every other precaution against his transactions with Brackhaus being recorded; the conversations now played back to him were with his Red Samurai officers, and with his mistress. He bowed a face taunt and tragic as a Noh mask.
"What do you want?"
"To begin with, you will prevent Renraku's divestment from Tir's infrastructure and stall the corporate military response as if your miserable life depended on it. If any trace of the digital intelligence used by the Runners is found in the Baysprawl matrix network, it will come to Lord Lofwyr and not Renraku. Several of your own projects regarding artificial intelligence rather interest him also."
"I would be killed, or dismissed, for any one of these things, as surely as you would destroy me if I did not do them!"
"Leave your survival in my hands, Tanaka-san," Golden eyes seemed to consume Kaito Tanaka's world in living, grasping flame, "I intend this to be a long and most profitable relationship."
Brackhaus disconnected the call. While Tanaka slowly discovered what Hans had already known–that he did not have it in him to kill himself–he placed his Milan-made shoes on a footstool and set the 1812 Overture thundering from MCT-made speakers, with a wave of one hand. One claw, that drifted in time with the triumphant music. As he stared at the drone-captured image of a copper-haired, emaciated woman, his smile was only hungrier.
-0-
"If Kali's, like, getting out of the Shadows…first thing I'll do when this is done, I'll steal that footage back from the corps. Tell the real story–how you fought, how they all fragged up, how everyone died. Like all those datasteals with Anya…frag, Anya. She's…I don't even fragging know if she's gone or not! That's the stupid thing, I don't know what I feel, there was so much…I don't know if I can even cry, for my chummer…"
"You can cry now, chummer. We can do anything. We will see her again."
Susan squeezed Hailey's arm, in the Corp SUV growling towards the docks, as the decker girl wept. Unfailing, indefatigable Anya, with a quip and spectacular solution for anything, had been Susan's chummer far longer, who she'd loved–and mourned, in a way, for a long time. Even if weird A.I. stuff made it hard–even if a day crammed full of stress, storm and exhaustion made it hard–even if the years of unending deaths and darkness made it hard to feel a thing, sometimes. At the end of it, she had nothing in her but numbness–and pain for Anya, Hailey, Orion. After all the drek they'd known, they could not just die.
"You saved all our lives. You fought to the end. How did you ever get so strong?"
"Learnt from the best? I guess I was lied to, broken, taken, beaten to drek...how can you, like, stand it, being strong?"
"...Redmond. We had to be strong to survive; real strength. Not punching through planks or dodging bullets. Not those soft corp fraggers killing from their desks. Not even taking all the drek and pain in silence, living on in Redmond, Colma, El Infernio...maybe that's more than strength, but it's not right. You were born somewhere softer than Redmond, but you had a need inside you–truth, adventure, life. It's worth fighting that, fighting for yourself, fighting for all we need and we love–you are a precious, incredible girl worth fighting for."
"You almost sound like a philosopher," Ilsa muttered, "Perhaps I should watch a few of those martial arts dramas you're so keen on."
Hailey laugh weakly; her eyes were bright. Exhausted by the long battle, she dropped off in Susan and Harry's arms. They would have carried her to the Embarcadero on their shoulders, their saving heroine–the last and best shadowrunner in San Francisco, once the whispers of what she had done broke out. It felt like their girl had truly grown up; it was Harry who felt like a stupid kid.
"…frag, I'm sorry I said all that drek. We'd just got this far, lived this long, without changing the world…what else could I do?"
"So many things we can do, if we're alive."
Susan's voice was gentle, but Harry bowed his head; she kissed his bloodied hair.
"You were right to speak out, Hotspur," Ilsa's voice was bleak, as she outstared a black window, "I should have told them that Saito is a mad monster who has to die; we'll most likely be dead within a week in any case."
On his release, Hasagawa had gone to offer a can of synthol to Ishakawa's grave; he didn't have any family to tell he was fragging glad he'd lived through the day. They heard later than Kali had gotten him a Head of Security job at Mitsuhama, though the ex-bodyguard-driver would've been happier to never see a gun again. The Runners were not leaving San Francisco alone, however; squads of corpsec, the first of those promised for Redding, were in the vans ahead and back of them. They would almost have felt more comfortable without them, needless to say.
Then there were Kali's metahuman staff from Eclipse. Held at gunpoint for hours by the Marines, they had lost hope of anything but getting hacked or machine-gunned to death. With one incident and another, however, the order had never been handed down. The last metahumans in San Francisco–four elves and three dwarfs; musicians, dancers, bartenders and an accountant–were now immediately leaping on the first boat out of town, even if it would take them through a warzone.
"We should've run years ago." Omphalous, Eclipse's far-famed DJ, folded into the van with the Runners, stared soulfully back at the skyraker lights. "I missed what the City used to be, I suppose. So many elves gone to Tir, dwarves to Halferville, orks to Oakland. Artists, entrepreneurs, just different, wonderful people. There was this old play about a fiddler on a roof…when they drive a people out, their music goes with them; something of a place's spirit."
"We're…sorry. If you'd be safer in Tir Tairngire than Redding…?"
"Probably I'm a bit too dark to suit them, and Faux-Fourth Age Folk isn't my thing," Omphalous's smile filled her dark, handsome face with light; Harry couldn't help grinning back, "I won't be sticking around in Redding, but I owe you a song or two for saving our lives."
"Did we do that?"
"Maybe. You ought to have–that's how it'll be, once I write your song, Hotspur. The corps own the trid stations, but live music still belongs to the people."
Susan was somewhat glad to drag Harry away from the latest beautiful woman he'd fascinated, once the van stopped, to check the docks before the civilians followed. It was as well they did, because Keiji Saito was waiting for them, seated on a bollard before the small cargo ship Mitsuhama had set aside for them.
Even in a civilian suit there was no mistaking him, with his moustache, shaven head and razor-crisp trouser creases. What was stranger was that he was alone, unarmed and bowing almost to his waist, roaring out sorry.
"Honto ne gomenesai! This day has witnessed Keiji Saito's mistake of a lifetime!"
"Perhaps; you are certainly mistaken in seeking forgiveness from us, if that is your wish." Ilsa regarded the most feared man in Calfree narrowly, "Is it still Colonel Saito?"
"Always. I might as well carve the insignia onto my arm, now." Saito straightening up with a shockingly pleasant grin, then turned a stormy gaze on the skyline shadows of archologies. "The capitalists and politicians cannot dismiss me without discrediting our whole mission in San Francisco, and themselves. Nor do they wish to be rid of one they believe they have such a hold over, and expect to continue filling their coffers with extortion. Yet, all I have ever wished to do is to protect honest, hard-working humans from murderers and monsters. We accomplished that, today, at least."
"Guess so," Harry found himself smiling, "But you were wrong about us. Makes you think...you might have been wrong about metahumans, as well?"
"Not about Tir Tairngire. Or the corpers who mean to play at war from their high towers. Their hirelings will secure the Valley farmlands–they will give up Redding to Tir's army while you fight and die. They mean to make pawns of us all, but we are no pawns or puppets, Hotspur-san. We are warriors who fight and win."
"If Redding calls for aid, as Calfree did in '37, you will come." Ilsa's voice was weary, "The Corps have left Redding in our hands; the Imperial State would have no choice but to follow. The entire west coast would be plunged into war."
"Do you believe that this world of drek and corruption can be changed without a war? I could have a brigade on the border in forty-eight hours, supported by panzers, artillery and aircraft. Have no fear for Redding–it will require the full devotion of my men to lay every inch of Tir waste. Monsters without soul or conscience, spreading death and falsehood to every quarter, you have seen they will stop at nothing! You know that the elves must die, if we are to live! I offer you my sword; the only weapon in this war that can bring you victory!"
Ilsa supposed Saito wouldn't have lasted so long without a capacity for grovelling hypocrisy and lies–though even his most affable grins still faintly evoked a Death's Head.
Harry and Ilsa looked at Susan, whose knuckles had gone white at soon as Saito began to speak. She looked at Hailey–very much awake, now–who stared for a minute, then called out. Saito's face was iron-rigid as Kali's metahuman staff filed out of the van and faced him. Silent, fearful, but staring their tormentor in the eye.
"There's, like, one thing I've really got to tell you." Hailey began. "The decker who rang rings round your rotorcraft and every decker in your dumb army this morning? She was an ork."
"…a trog decker? Impossible! That would require human intelligence!"
"Uh, noooo, just super-human mercy. She could've, like, burnt the brains out of every single marine in her way–your marines who kill, rape, terrorise her people for nyuyen and stupid lies! She was an ork, and she let your boys live…she was the best of us, and she beat you! So, why exactly are we supposed to join hands with a loser? A liar, a mean, stupid bully, a sick monster–and the megacorps' puppet, now and always! You can, like, run on home to them, now. Oh yeah, and run all the way home someday; give us our city back!"
A dismissive flap of one hand crowned Hailey's comments; the slight girl in her torn black bodysuit faced the enraged warlord like a mongoose and a snake. Finally, Saito turned on his heel.
"It seems that I never was mistaken about you, shadowrunners."
Colonel Saito, alone, literally marched away from the docks. A mad tin soldier; proud, ridiculous and unstoppable. The dwarves and elves would've cursed him for their lost friends or simply spat after him, had Oakland and Berkeley not remained very much in his grip. All of them touched Hailey, though, as they filed passed to the boat, and smiled with hope as it surged out into the bay–Susan barely felt less relieved that the nightmare was over, herself.
"That was novahot." Harry told Hailey, embracing her–Susan figured she'd earned it, "One last thing though–what was that file Kali was holding over Mitsuhama?"
"Oh…you don't want to know…" But she clearly wanted to share the burden, "All four Japanacorps were in on it, and Saito. It's generally known that the Megacorps test medicines and cosmetics on metas in the internment camps, much like El Infernio. They're really interested in metahumans themselves, though; troll dermal armour implants, dwarf vision, elvish immortality. Only, that would take decades of really gruesome experiments…and an interment camp in the Mojave that no metahuman was meant to leave alive. It got closed before long, it wasn't getting enough results for the nyuyen, but…"
"It happened here, and it could happen again." Ilsa turned a strange stare back toward the city, "Why did I not kill that monster when we had the chance?"
"We wouldn't have made it out of the Bay." Susan reassured her, "Anyway, the corps aren't going to give Saito a thing, after this. He's finished."
"In 1923, there was another madman whom some thought was finished. The corporations and the generals thought they could control him, too."
"Enough with the ancient history, Wiz. Haven't there been enough people dead, today?"
"Many, many more before this is over, Susan…but no more today."
"Yeah." Harry whispered, as Susan leaned back into the rich, blood-flecked scent of his hair, "Let's go home."
Between her best friend and her love, Susan gazed back at the city that had reunited them, broken them, re-bonded them forever–for what she believe would be the last time. Faster and smoother than they'd come, the boat passed under the Golden Gate Bridge and surged north towards Redding. Home; it was a strange, sweet thought.
-0-
Desorn Lightfall, former Ghost of Tir, could never say exactly how he'd escaped from the Pyramid. By hiding in a crawlspace for two days, of course–dropping into a trance to lower body temperature, and escape the agony of his leg–but that spectacularly failed to express the black struggle of his spirit in that metal womb.
He'd had more time than he'd ever desired to think about duty, revenge and death. The personal feelings and desires that he had never allowed; that the perfect Ghost could never know. The frustration and fury bubbling up to topple his plans; his magnificent house of cards. Morgan, Greenwood, Danvers, Lowther and the rest; doomed to death by his dreams. Not for Tir Taingire; for his selfish, struggling heart. As he finally limped away from the Pyramid into the night, the last elf in San Francisco, he could think of nothing more to do but leap off the Golden Gate. As if were possible that he should escape his life by such a path.
Rowan naturally didn't show up to the meet spot. Desorn heard later, Fuchi deckers had traced his connection to the disused office that corpsec special forces had swiftly fallen on. In the act of fleeing, Rowan had wounded two of them, then triggered his thermite implant as they filled him with bullets. Exposed to his squadmates as Lofwyr's pawn, the strength of his heart to fight must have failed. The pity Desorn felt for him, and Morgan and Greenwood, was like nothing he'd felt for years–silence and biting frost. If anyone else of his squad escaped, he never heard of them–he knew he would be killed as a loose end if he ever returned to Tir's forests. His beloved home, his comrades and his purpose, gone like a world of ghosts; but he couldn't pity the thing he'd proved to be.
Finally, Desorn walked away from the city where he had fought so many years. Melted through every checkpoint until he reached open country and began to make his way north. The invasion would be coming, any day; there would be something he could do for the homeland he could longer see. Fighter would be there. For death, revenge, redemption...even for nothing at all, he would fight. Like Tir itself, even after he'd faced his own soul in the darkness, he knew of nothing he could do but fight.