Oct. 18, 2070
Saturday
The Algiers District lay east of the Spire, an area flooded with Irish immigrants, many orcs and trolls who fled here after expulsion from Tir Na Nog shortly after its founding, much like the earlier waves of Irish immigrants seeking a new life in New Orleans. In a Tres-Chica café on a busy street, one lone man sat under a heavy shade as he sipped at his hot tea.
The man was well built, impossibly so, a sure sign of body sculpture. His clean-shaven head glistened in the heat, his armored jacket sleeveless to keep cool even as it protected his vitals. The man’s eyes were solid red, unmistakably cybernetic; a nasty scar ran down his left brow, through what was likely a normal eye once, and crossed another thick scar that swept over his left cheek. His mustache and goatee were black and meticulously trimmed around his mouth.
This was a man whose entire look screamed professional. Yet, the killer image died as his animatronics Emotitoy sat on his shoulder, a big toothy grin as it waved to people nearby and played peek-a-boo with a little girl across the way. It was the Grue model, fluffy and adorable, a miniature drone/toy with some of the most sophisticated fuzzy-logic algorithms in the field of body language decipherers. All the rage for the last year or so, this one had a valued purpose. Set to appear as if it had only a class II rating empathy software, in reality it was class VI, the most advanced the man was able to get his hands on. The emotitoy fed the man’s AR with a constant interpretation of subtle body language from everyone around him, certain key aggressive postures set to bring his attention to bear.
This man had many fake names in the system, but his street name was Raven. Until recently, he’d worked the shadows of London. British-borne, this man was well trained as a bodyguard but often moonlighted on shadowruns. One particular run left the man little choice but to seek work far from his home, so here he found himself in the Confederated American States (CAS), seeking to earn a living. When you’re as heavily cybered as this man, a steady income’s a must: all that ‘ware under your skin is expensive to maintain. Raven needed work, in the worst way. So, he opened a link to his most reliable source of funds: a fixer back home by the name of Stupid Bloody Johnson.
“Oi old friend,” Raven greeted the virtual image in his AR vision, his civilized British accent clean and proper.
“Raven,” the fixer smiled, his own accent a clear match, “how is New Orleans working out for you?”
“A bit dry at the moment,” Raven replied, “I find myself in some need of work.”
“Hmmm,” the fixer mused, “I think I have just the thing for you.”
Raven hid his surprise. He knew the fixer had a long reach, but he never suspected such dealings half a world away in the works. He expected the man to research and get back with him, but to have a job on hand? He was impressed.
“Here we are,” the fixer nodded, surveying data in his own AR, “seems the church has a delicate situation that may require your expertise.”
Raven subconsciously toyed with the rosaries dangling from his left hand. A devoted catholic, he was always eager to work for the church… providing the pay was juicy enough.
The fixer fed him a data file, with a brief bio on the Bishop who would serve as the Mr. Johnson.
“Seems they’ve some trouble in a Mausoleum. I’ll let you introduce yourself and arrange for the work… sending a message now to ensure my cut is deducted.”
“You’re a lifesaver, mate,” Raven flashed a virtual grin from his sculpted icon, then cut the connection and called up the Bishop.
The call-screen in his AR lit up with awe-inspiring lights, the haunting melody of a catholic choir ringing to the images as Raven explained his call to the virtual secretary who answered. The AI receptionist quickly connected him.
“Father, my name is Raven. I hear you’ve a bit of a problem that I may be able to help with, providing the pay is right.”
The bishop nodded, surveying the bio-data the fixer had just sent him on Raven.
“Yes, my son, you may be the right man for this… delicate situation. But, I warn you, you may need magical assistance on this one. Do you have such a resource?”
“Not a problem,” Raven assured the man, even as his mind scrambled at the unfortunate hang up. Magical assistance? Where in this God-forsaken city would he be able to find a wizard he could trust?
“Excellent,” the bishop smiled, satisfied. He sent over relevant data: a map of the Mausoleum, affected areas highlighted, as well as some news footage: many crypts have been desecrated in recent months.
“We haven’t seen the culprits, but suspect ghouls may be behind this. However, one of our flock sensed a supernatural threat looming behind this, which is why we strongly recommend you bring magical help.”
Raven skimmed over the data files… crypts broken into, body parts missing: likely snacks for ghouls.
“What’s the pay?”
“Three thousand dollars, plus a thousand per team member.”
Raven frowned. “Come now, father, the church can afford more than that.”
“This is a private matter,” the Bishop replied, strained, “I’m paying for this personally… But I’d be willing to pay four thousand, plus fifteen hundred per. That’s all I can afford.”
Raven silently cursed to himself. Bleeding stingy clergy!
“Very well, father, I’ll look into this and call you when we’re done.”
“Excellent,” the Bishop’s life-like image smiled, “go with God, my son.”
Raven cut the call and tapped absently on the table as he thought. Where to get some magical muscle? Well, why not start with his only friend in town? Raven had but a single chummer in the city, a rigger named Jugular he’d done a few jobs with. Jugular and he went way back, and you have to know someone in the local shadows if you want much chance at keeping air pushing through your teeth.
The virtual image of Jugular popped up as the rigger smiled. “Raven, buddy, how’ve you been? Getting settled into town alright?”
“Oi omae, good to see you again... Look, I’ve got some work lined up but I’m in a bit of a pickle… Seems I’ll need some magical assistance on this one, but I’m uncertain where to find such talent.”
Jugular’s sculpted image wore a musing expression. “Yes… yes as a matter of fact I may be able to hook you up. I’ve recently made friends with a rather odd mage. I must warn you, he’s a bit cagy… and I’m afraid only a face-to-face introduction is possible.”
Raven grinned broadly; this was going to be much easier than he feared. “Certainly, mate, and you’re welcome to have a cut of the action. Seems some bleeding sod has gone and desecrated some crypts, shoving crucifixes into dead arses and such. Pay’s not much but it should be a cake job.”
Jugular frowned, replying, “I wish I could, chummer, but I’m afraid I’ll be unavailable for the next few days. You know, there’s one other person I suspect the little mage would trust, a merc I’ve worked with. He’ll likely be willing to introduce you two for a cut of the action.”
Raven shrugged, “sure mate, if you trust him, I trust him.”
Jugular gave the contact info to Raven as a serving drone dropped from the ceiling to refill his tea. Raven sipped it as he opened the picture of the merc, nearly spitting his drink into the drone’s face.
“Oi chummer, what’s with this hair?”
Jugular laughed. “He’s got a curious sense of fashion, but he’s deadly with an assault rifle. Not to mention he’s likely the only way you can meet our mutual friend.”
Raven nodded quickly, “sure mate, guess we won’t be working together on his looks. I’ll give him a ring on the tele.”
“Peace,” Jugular said in parting and cut the connection.
Raven glanced at the massive mullet framing an open, friendly face. “Bloody Americans,” he muttered as he made the call.
“Bonjou,” the sculpted, virtual image of the merc popped up. By God, he’d exaggerated the mullet!
Shuddering to keep his composure, Raven said, “Oi there, omae, I’m a good friend of Jugular. Got some work and he said you and your mage friend might be interested.”
The merc’s eyes lit up. “Fo shore!”
An hour later the two pulled into the marina on their motorcycles. Raven drove the latest Harley Davidson Scorpion, a popular brand for over 20 years running now. Piman drove an Indian Pathfinder: a sleek racer, the bike was decked out in the tale-tell markings of a go-gang, two odd, club-like posts rising from the back, angled into the sky.
“You need t’wait here,” Piman drawled in his Cajun/Creole accent, “de lit’fellow likes es privacee. I’ll go look see if I c’find em, make yo offer.”
Raven nodded, then couldn’t help but stare at the merc’s long hair waving in the wind as he walked onto the docks, the short, spiky top bristling. Bloody Americans!
At the boat, the merc began to look about before he remembered he’d likely not see the dwarf even if he were here.
“Uh, bonjou?”
“Hello Piman,” the voice answered beside him, and the merc nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Dare you,” the merc grinned, “dare be aw man bag daer who’d like to meet, for aw job.”
Silence stretched on, melting Piman’s grin.
“Wait here,” the voice graveled.
Piman leaned against a post on the pier as he waited... for what, he couldn’t guess, but he was a patient man.
The dwarf lay down, slipping his mortal coil as his essence dove into astral space. Glancing at the spirit that hid his physical form, the dwarf’s soul flew at the speed of thought over the docks, coming to a man whose essence was all but killed by extensive cyberware.
The dwarf carefully read his aura. The man had a strong sense of eagerness about him, ready to work for a higher purpose: almost a fervor, similar to the hated Itzi, but, and this was critical, without the dark taint of sinister evil; all in all, a good man that could be trusted.
“Very well,” the dwarf said as soon as he returned to his body, “let’s go meet him.”
“Raven,” Piman smiled as he returned, “meet...” Piman’s face went slack. “Uh, you know, I don even know yo name.”
Raven had been looking around for this supposed mage, but clearly the bleeding merc was alone. Was he mad? His emotitoy AI indicated no ruse from the man.
“Better you don’t,” a rough voice spoke out from nowhere, sending a chill through Raven.
“Mais, we have t’call you sometin,” Piman insisted. “How’bout… Lit’One, til we get aw bon name, an’way.”
“Whatever,” the voice replied, not caring at all.
“Now see here,” Raven’s British accent was clearly perturbed, “if we’re going to work together you need to show me your face.”
Several moments passed as Raven tried in vain to find the hidden speaker, before finally giving Piman a questioning look. The merc gave a shrug with his eyebrows, clearly of no help in this situation.
“Very well,” the voice replied at last, “but know this: until recently, everyone who’s ever seen me died for it. You must never, ever reveal to anyone what I look like or who I am. This is for your own protection.”
“Sure, mate,” Raven nodded as he mentally rolled his eyes. This slotting mage was even more paranoid than most. Likely a bit unhinged, but he’ll play along if the fellow is half as good as Jugular hinted at.
“Over here,” the voice called out from under a dry pier, “where there are no cameras.”
Hiding his impatience, Raven sauntered over there with Piman in tow. Before their eyes, the dwarf faded into view. He had no gear to speak of, wearing a unisex jumpsuit you typically buy out of a vending machine: wear once then dispose of.
Still, Raven caught his breath. Orange skin? Bloody red hair streaked with yellow? No wonder the slotting dwarf was paranoid about people seeing him. If he was dodging any heat at all, such a description would stick out anywhere. No need for all the drama, however, in Raven’s opinion. But, the little Grue drone on his shoulder fed him a wealth of data – the dwarf was dead serious, jittery, and had a 67% chance of suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. The Brit decided not to press the issue.
“So it’s four thousand to be split three ways, plus fifteen hundred each,” Raven said. “Shall I send you the data?”
“I don’t have a commlink,” the dwarf grumbled, “Sean… hide me.”
One of the ugliest, most disturbing spirits Raven had ever seen appeared briefly before fading from site along with the dwarf. By God, it looked eviscerated!
“Whatever you say, Wee Man,” Raven shot back. “Well, we should go check out this mausoleum. Uh, Wee Man, you need a ride?”
“What are you riding in,” the unseen voice rumbled.
Raven climbed back to street level and pointed to his Harley Scorpion, “That.”
“What speeds can it reach?”
“Standard Harley,” Raven said casually, though his pride in the bike betrayed him, “she can go 150 kph without even touching the turbo.”
The invisible dwarf grunted, “no, I can keep up with that easy enough.”
Raven began to laugh, but his mirth died down when he saw a flat expression on Piman’s face.
“Seriously?”
The dwarf sighed impatiently, “just go, I’ll be there when you get there.”
Raven climbed aboard the Scorpion, fired the engines and peeled out of the lot. With a high-pitched scream, Piman’s Pathfinder pulled to follow alongside him.
“He’s on your bike with you, isn’t he,” Raven fired a message to Piman’s PAN.
“No,” came a quick response.
Raven risked a glance at his new companion as they both split, flying past a slow-moving Jackrabbit before closing alongside each other again. The little bloke HAD to be kidding them. Shrugging off the charades, he focused fully on the road.
Even as the two peeled out of the lot, the shape-shifter shed his metahuman skin, spread his wings and dove into the sky. Drakes are dual-natured, meaning they exist in and perceive both realms at once. The cloaking effect could be seen in astral as a swelling of the spirit, concealing the drake’s form within it. Sean, the drake commanded silently,give me the power of movement.
This was the last service owed by the spirit, though it would continue to perform until sunset or dismissed. With the next flick of his wings, the drake now flew at five times his normal rate. Rising high above the streets, he singled out the two bikers with hawkish vision and shadowed their path.
Now the Pathfinder could likely outrun him, even with the help of his spirit, but the drake had a heavy advantage over both of them: the skies overhead held no lights, no sluggish traffic, not even a sharp turn to slow him. The drake had no problem tagging along. The thrill of such freedom sang in his soul as the wind caressed his scales, his stomach tingling pleasantly with each soaring beat of his wings, but then the guilt at enjoying what had been a bitter gift quickly shook him of such thoughts.
When they crossed into the French Quarter, the drake could not help but gape as he halted his advance. This district had been the toughest obstacle to building the spire, for its history and tourist attractions (i.e. legendary parties) kept much of the populace from signing off on the idea of burying it with the rest of the city. So, a deal had been struck. A wide swath of the support structure was missing here, a hollow cavity reaching up to the sky, terminating below on the very borders of the French Quarter. Though wrapping three sides of it, not one strut or structure of the Spire dangled directly overhead.
Mirror siding gave revelers as much an illusion of unbroken sky as possible, though no one could fool themselves for an instant that the Spire wasn’t towering above. But, this hole chewed out of the Spire’s side wasn’t the cause of the drake’s awe. A powerful spell blanketed the entire quarter, a shimmering dome of mana, tinged with an aura stronger than any the drake had ever assensed. He hovered before it even as the bikers below plunged in unaware. The drake carefully examined the barrier.
This was the work of a spirit, a Great Spirit. To try to summon one as powerful as this would surely kill any mage or shaman who made the attempt – such power was beyond anything the drake could comprehend. This shimmering dome was a spell, one that affected the entire area, but it was harmless to the drake, so dismissively he flew through, shivering at the power that prickled his skin, and resumed his tagging.
The bikers below had, in fact, been made aware of the spell. A traffic advisory had flashed up on their AR, a friendly female voice accompanying the warning.
“Welcome to the French Quarter. As you may already be aware of, these are the safest streets in the world. The French Quarter is protected by a free spirit, our beloved Toussaint. He wants you to have a wonderful time, and to ensure that your revelry goes uninterrupted, he protects our streets with a powerful compulsion not to use firearms of any kind. If anyone is able to overcome this compulsion, he will personally show up to deal with the lawbreaker so your party can continue. Party as much as you can, and if your festival is truly exceptional, Toussaint himself may join in.”
“Is this slotting wench for real?” Raven spoke to Piman through their link. He glanced at his new companion.
“Yeah, take dat warnin to heart,” Piman replied, serious as a Pred to the temple, “NO ONE messes round dis quarter, no w’guns, an’ways.”
“Where the hell did such a thing come from?”
Piman chuckled. “Dis part of town be very lively. Most tink dat, widda returnin’o magic, de French Quarter woke up, an’s been partyin’ wid us all ev’since. Dat’s why de Spire no built on dis part… He no let them.”
“So… no murders in this district?”
“Bondye yes, o’course peeple be ganked all’time,” Piman’s mullet, flapping as it was in the wind, shook as he nodded vigorously, “but no by guns. He don seem ta mind aw knifin now an agin, an plenty o people be beaten dead by hand; killin been round longer dan any gun.”
An evil grin lit Raven’s face, his laugh lost to the wind. His twin Predator IV heavy pistols were a courtesy, really. If he wanted to do some real damage, his deadliest weapon was his own body. Ceramic bone lacing, full-body muscle replacement… not to mention he was a master of Wing Chun, a Chinese martial art that excelled at close-range combat. Your average troll would have to swing a bat to match the strength of his punches and kicks.
They wove a lazy trail through the quarter, glancing at the tourists and sights that pressed all around as if Mardi Gras threatened to break out at any second. Though it was only two in the afternoon, one large procession partied through the streets, people dancing in a riot of colors as a quartet of buglers led the way in frilly suits, setting the tempo as they swayed, blaring their raunchy melodies on silvery trumpets. The buglers were complemented by a heavyset man pumping away on an accordion.
Letting GridGuide choose the route, the two bikers turned onto Canal Street.
“A friendly warning,” the female recording pleasantly cut in, “but you are now leaving the French Quarter. Our benefactor’s protection ends here.”
An ARO (Augmented-Reality Object) of a flashing line popped up in their AR, intersecting the street. This was right at the mouth of a large tunnel, ringed with a burnished, metal-like wall that turned mirror-smooth overhead as it lined this side of the Spire. The top could not been seen from here.
“Feels like flying into the belly of the beast,” Raven commented over the comm.
They left the safety of the French Quarter, trading garish, festive store fronts for heavy support struts and harsh, artificial lighting, yawning darkness peaking through a mesh of latticed structures. Unseen, the drake cleared the upper lip of the tunnel entrance, now streaking a mere seven meters above his companions. Occasionally, the meshwork opened out into an eternal abyss of darkness, punctuated here and there by distant lights, some clearly tracing other roadways in the distance, one more than two kilometers away.
“Bloody madness,” Raven breathed, “how much structure is above us?”
Piman’s laugh was long and heart-felt. “Raven, mes ami, best you no tink too much o’dat questee-on.”
The whole level beneath the Spire was known as The Mausoleum. A sort of play on words with two meanings: the first, given that the original city was dead, lying as if in a crypt of the Spire’s making; the second, given all the old mausoleums still open down here: they were one of the few remnants of the original New Orleans people still visited.
Twenty minutes after entering this dark abyss, the bikers pulled off an expressway and into a split-level lot at their destination: the Garden District Mausoleum. Parking their rides, both men stowed their helmets as the drake settled nearby and shed his skin for the smaller dwarf-form.
“You here, Wee Man?” Raven mused aloud, promptly answered with a low, gravely “yes.”
Whistling the Creole ditty of the buglers back in the French Quarter, Piman flipped open a side capsule on his bike and fished out the FN HAR assault rifle, pausing a moment to admire his trusty weapon. Staring disapprovingly, Raven cleared his throat audibly.
“Hmmm?” Piman replied, glancing up to gaze into pupil-less red eyes that still conveyed every shred of remonstration.
“Are you really going to try to bring that?” Raven’s English accent cut like a nanny chastising a toddler.
Piman began to blush crimson. “I… I have aw permit,” he muttered lamely.
“A real permit?”
“No,” Piman quickly answered, “but’s bon enuff to fool de N.O.P.D.”
Raven began to speak, but then gave up and spun on his heel, stomping off.
“May come in handy,” Piman muttered, turning in the dwarf’s last heard location, but whether he approved or not the dwarf said nothing. Unsure, Piman slung the weapon and hurried after the Brit.
Well lit, the lights of this area brought the ceiling more than 30 meters overhead into clear view. Unbelievably large lattices and support struts wove through a messy, tangled pattern, some bunching thickly to reach down to the floor as the tendrils of mammoth pillars. It all looked like the belly of an alien ship, unbelievable in its scope. Even Raven could not help but marvel at the will and resources it took to build such a thing, magic or not.
Returning his attention to their path, the Brit saw an ancient stone wall with a Gothic arch at the end, looking comically out of place here. As Raven approached the entrance, he brought up the virtual map. This wall enclosed four square blocks of mausoleum grounds, two of which were currently marked ‘off limits’ to the viewing public. A security guard stood at either side of the arch, watching them approach.
“We’re here on Church business,” Raven said crisply, confidently. One of the guards surveyed hidden data before him as the other frowned at Piman’s assault rifle.
“I have aw permit,” Piman muttered, and it took every shred of composer for Raven not to spin and wrap a hand around the blabber’s throat.
The other guard waved them through. Hiding his shock at the ease in which they let a heavily-armed redneck enter, Raven quickly walked in.
“Told you,” Piman mumbled smugly.
“Bloody Americans,” Raven grumbled.
The dwarf walked with his eyes closed, his astral perception in full force. A taint bled through the air here, blanketing the entire graveyard as near as he could tell. Assensing the background static, the mage suppressed a shiver. A sense of loss and tragedy from centuries of mourners had left its imprint here, thousands of souls laid to rest. But, that natural static was tainted with something worse: a growing sense of perversion.
Speaking astrally, the mage muttered, “something’s wrong here, Sean.”
The spirit shielding him nodded. “Yes, master, and whatever it is, its warping the sanctity of this place.”
The mage followed his two companions as they headed to the first desecration on their map. “A spirit?”
“A free spirit’s my guess,” Sean nodded.
The dwarf’s brow bunched as he thought back, happy memories that now sawed at his gut with guilt. Mamma Vette had taught him about many magical threats…
“A shadow spirit, perhaps?” mused the dwarf mage, remembering his studies.
“Would be my guess,” Sean replied.
“Not good,” the dwarf muttered darkly. Sean merely nodded his agreement, and both scrutinized every corner astrally as they continued on.
Their destination lay in the off-limits region, the only barrier keeping visitors respectful of this rule was the lack of lighting in the affected areas: the unlit path they turned onto faded into darkness, leaving the bright walkways behind. Piman and Raven switched on their low-light vision, then their thermals as the lack of lighting demanded. Their invisible friend stuck with his astral sight, the glow of their auras revealing the crypt vaults around them in a gray, colorless mockery of their physical forms.
They stopped before an impressive crypt, at least 9 meters wide and 12 long, towering up a respectable 4 meters, trimmed with Renaissance-style pillars and a steeple wrapped in authentic marble. A large, broken cross littered the ground before it. Scratches marred the door, obscuring the family name, though the rest of the engraving was still legible. “Est. 1792,” it read.
“Wait here,” rasped the dwarf, “make certain no one disturbs me.”
Thought they couldn’t see it, the odd, rending sound as the dwarf shed his skin for the drake-form was unmistakable for Piman, though Raven couldn’t guess at what he heard. In this form, the drake’s senses put his dwarven ones to shame. Subtle smells impossible for metahuman noses leapt out at him, distinct and clear. Death moving death, his snout told him as he surveyed a trail across the pavement that led deeper into the cemetery. An awakened fungus was growing within the walls of the tomb, visible to the drake’s astral senses.
The feathered serpent approached the door: a large sepulcher over 2 meters in diameter. Grasping each side with his two feet, the drake leveraged with his tail and wings. With a low, labored hiss, he rolled the stone aside, seemingly by itself to the two men watching.
“Bloody hell,” breathed Raven, “but you’ve got some strength for a fragging finger-wagger!”
Within the tomb, the drake found a long family line’s worth of graves, set within vaults on the walls, even in the floor. Claw marks around two floor-graves were crudely patched together with ferrocrete, though the original damage was evident. Examined more closely, the drake could tell this was a husband and wife set, both buried within the last month. Coiling up before them, the drake projected into astral space.
Physical barriers are as dense as smoke to an astral denizen, though if he’d tried projecting through the awakened fungus it would have stopped him. Thankfully, no such fungus remained within the headstone of the man’s crypt, so the feathered serpent slid through the stone and stretched deep inside to examine the remains. Two legs and one arm were missing, tore brutally from the corpse. The drake assensed the remains carefully, then withdrew.
“Raven,” the dwarf called out once he shed his feathered skin, “we have a serious matter here.”
Both cybered men entered the tomb.
“What’s the score, Wee Man,” Raven asked, scanning the interior on every wavelength he could detect.
“Ghouls, no doubt,” the dwarf muttered raspy, “but that’s not the problem. Shadow spirit’s likely pulling the strings. That’s bad, very bad.”
“Well,” Piman replied, trying to pep-talk the mage, “dat’s why you here! We c’handle de ghouls.”
The dwarf sighed in a condescending manner, and then said, “look, Piman, you know my spirit Sean. If I ordered him to materialize and kill you both right now, he could make you put on a dress and sit in his lap, if he wanted, and there’s not a slotting thing you could do about it.”
Both the men glanced to the other. Neither could really argue that point, a mundane against a spirit is likely soon to join the spiritual realm themselves.
“Well, see here,” the dwarf growled, “a shadow spirit’s far tougher than a normal one, and they’ve no master to kill to quickly send them home. They’re nasty, far more trouble than some pathetic pittance of less than seven grand. Big leagues, run-wise. We need a hell of a pay increase, and we need everyone in this mausoleum to clear out.”
Raven nodded, “a good point, Wee Man. I’ll demand a raise right now… You work on finding this thing.”
Raven called up the Bishop even as the invisible dwarf settled down to tackle the task of tracking their prey.
“My son,” the Bishop’s life-like image smiled.
“Short on time, long on trouble, Father,” Raven cut him off, “we need two things. First, clear the mausoleum.”
The Bishop’s icon shifted uncomfortably, “um, my son we don’t own that mausoleum, the city does. We don’t really have the authority…”
“Then ask them,” Raven cut him off again, “tell them lives are at stake, you won’t be lying.”
“… and the second?”
“My wizard says the trouble we’re about to clear out for you is far more than a few ghouls. We need to renegotiate our contract.”
Though the Bishop’s side of the conversation could not be heard, Raven was talking aloud during the exchange.
“Tell him it’s a slotting shadow spirit,” the dwarf spat angrily.
Nodding, Raven added, “it’s a shadow spirit, Father. Do you know what that means?”
Silently, Raven prayed the Bishop didn’t ask him to answer that question, for he himself had no idea what it meant (aside from how pissy it made their spell slinger). The silence on the line would have been uncomfortable, if not for the thoughtful, musing expression on the Bishop’s icon.
“Wait, please,” the Bishop muttered, putting the Brit on hold.
The wait was not long.
“The Church will foot this bill,” the Bishop said as he reconnected the signal, “but we’ll need proof of this threat.”
“They need proof,” Raven said aloud.
After a moment’s thought, the dwarf said, “have them send someone with astral perception once we’re done. Even destroyed, its taint will be visible to them.”
Raven relayed the message, argued over price, then disconnected.
“I need to work on my negotiation skills,” the Brit muttered apologetically, “I usually just intimidate the Johnson, but I can’t do that to the church. The pay is 18 grand, plus we keep the full bounties on any ghouls we bag.”
The dwarf shook his head in disgust. Stingy church! If he wasn’t so desperate for funds he’d walk out right now. He should walk out, given what they may face…
“Very well,” the dwarf rasped, but his displeasure was painfully obvious.
Both the muscles’ PANs signaled an incoming message: a fire alarm, complete with AROs lighting the path to the nearest exit. They disabled the message, and then Raven stayed in contact with the church until the grounds were cleared. It only took five minutes for the mourners to leave.
“One thing,” Raven mused aloud, “this thing hasn’t attacked anyone yet, as far as I know… what makes you think it’d go on a killing spree?”
“Likely it won’t on them,” the dwarf spat, “but I don’t want to have to kill some innocent slotter when he sees me.”
Raven pursed his lips.
Cagy, Jugular had said.
Not nearly an apt enough description.
“I have to release Sean. Then, re-summon him,” the dwarf explained, though neither of his companions understood why.
With a mental flick, the dwarf released his spirit, fading into visibility with an intense expression on his face. Reaching into the astral, he called for the Spirit of Man to return to him, serve him once again. Though he’d performed many summons, this time his powers failed him: Sean did not return. Was it the strain, the background taint? He would never know, but when the dwarf fell to his knees he was exhausted, abandoned by a spirit that did not answer his summons.
Taking a deep breath, the dwarf tried something far simpler. He summoned a watcher spirit. Such spirits were mice in an astral world of lions, but they had their uses. This one took the form of a miniature serpent of glowing sapphire, tiny feathered wings fluttering behind its head. Another moment’s concentration and a second appeared.
“Both of you listen closely,” the dwarf hissed at the spirits, fatigue blotting his mood. “You need to track this.” He mentally gave them the astral signature of the corpse. “Once you find where it went, return and show me. If, at any time, one of you should be killed, the other is to stop the search and come to me immediately.”
Both the shimmering, ghostly little snakes nodded their heads before fading from sight. Sighing heavily, the dwarf sat down. “They’ll take some time, an hour or two likely if they can do it at all,” he muttered to his friends. “Until then, I need to sleep, gather my strength for the fight ahead.”
“Raven,” the dwarf hissed, “you were going to see eventually... Remember my warning.”
Raven began a tart reply, but his words died as his red cybereyes bulged in their sockets. The dwarf’s form swelled, and then burst apart as the feathered serpent within stretched free. Involuntarily, the Brit took a step back. The serpent coiled itself into a bed of feathered wings and promptly slept.
Raven stared long and hard at the intimidating creature, finally catching Piman beaming at him.
“You knew?” Raven breathed incredulously.
“He mus like you,” the merc replied softly. Then he brought his finger to his lips and gave a soft “shhhh.”
Both men settled in to wait, the merc grinning while the Brit glowered.
An hour later, the drake’s long snout snapped up, his startling-blue eyes wide and alert. Both men stood straight, keenly aware of the body language of the feathered dragon that spoke of danger. The middle of the drake swelled and the dwarf stepped out among fast-fading smoke.
“Wee Man?” Raven clipped.
“One of my spirits is dead,” the dwarf muttered harshly. The mage felt rested, that hour’s sleep had done him well.
The other watcher spirit appeared before him, its sapphire body twitching in agitation as its miniature wings beat frantically. “Master…” its squeaky, high voice began.
“I know,” the dwarf cut the little thing off, “show me.”
To both men, the dwarf and ghostly little snake seemed to enter a staring contest. Watcher spirits share a very close link with their summoners. With a bit of concentration, they could show their masters all they saw, heard, and felt. What the dwarf witnessed next took only a breath.
A canopy of images flashed into mind, elusive wisps of the aural trail of the corpse flesh, nearly undetectable among the stink of corruption and mourning that permeated the astral space of this mausoleum… heavy eagerness to please the master... a stronger trail, excitement mounting… an old area of the grounds, the trail itself lighting a darkened hole in a brick and mortar wall… then sudden terror, black smoke billowing, cries of the other spirit as its essence is consumed like a rabbit fallen victim to a panther… finally, a frantic path whizzing through the grounds, back to the master who waited.
The dwarf snapped his attention to his well-armed friends.
“Let’s go,” he said, dismissing the spirit out of hand, “it knows we’re coming.”
Raven and Piman exchanged a stoic look. Then both fell into step with the dwarf as his short legs walked as fast as they could.
“Sean will not answer my call,” the dwarf said as he practically ran, causing them to walk in long strides to keep up, “so I’m on my own, magic-wise. If I fall… run like hell.”
They arrived so quickly that the dwarf paused in fear. They stood upon a long, broad path, unlit, the trashed mausoleum they sought at its end. With a glance to both his companions, the dwarf shed his skin and slithered onward, his wings held up as if ready to strike. Both men kicked their reflexes on. Even the drake had such power, using a spell to slow time from his perspective, making his actions appear lightning-quick.
His eagle-like sight zoomed in on the unkempt mausoleum at the end of the path. One corner of the small vault was gaping open, as if something had burst free. That was where his watcher died. Then, as if in answer to this thought, a large shadow poured out of the hole, along with many forms within it. Peering back at him, several sets of dual-natured eyes glared hungrily.
Unable to speak, the drake flared his crown of brilliant feathers and let a long, challenging hiss spill forth from his throat. The warning was clear to his friends: Piman braced for possible recoil and raised his FN HAR. Almost casually, Raven whipped both pistols out from their concealable sheaths in his lower back, accessible by the hidden slits in his armored jacket. Both the Predator IV pistols fed smartlinked data, as yet unable to select any targets, instead lighting points of impact that traced where his barrels pointed, seen with his AR vision.
Humanoid shapes began pouring out of the shadow, running with their throats open in howls. A very eerie sight, for no sound came from all that commotion. Their trap failing, this pack of ghouls opted instead to charge the intruders and rip them to shreds. Hairless and blind (physically, though their astral sight more than made up for this shortcoming), the wretched things had all gone mad in their transformation: no sane creature would charge men holding firearms, certainly not as competently as these two did. The 30 meters of distance between them and their prey would seem a hundred to anyone else mad enough to charge into the barrels of such guns.
The drake studied the aura of the shadowy form very intently. Of no doubt now, this was what he had feared it would be, sixth rating, his analytical mind estimated its power at, even as fear turned into bitter bile in his throat. The strongest spirit he had ever seen, never mind the fragger was a slotting shadow spirit. The creature had evoked the power of silence on those around them, and its aura was black with despair.
To the drake’s astral sight, the shadow whipped out a line of black smoke into Piman’s face. An insidious spell of despair struck the merc, his grip on the assault rifle slipping. The drake cursed himself, for he had made a rookie mistake: he forgot to protect his friends against magic. Anxious to correct the error, the drake glanced into Piman’s eyes as he tried a counterspell on the effect. For Piman, it was as if one steady glance into the eyes of his feathered, scaly companion was enough to slip free of the odd feeling and bring his weapon to bear, his courage returning in full force.
Raven was the first to shatter the silence. His Predators began to bark, heavy booms that tore through the closest ghoul still twenty meters from its prey. The creature buckled and slowed, overtaken by the next, silently howling its madness as it fell face forward, its final moments spent clawing at the cobblestone as its life bled out.
Piman’s FN HAR echoed the twin booms with a non-stop clatter, a whumping thud repeated endlessly as the assault rifle poured a stream of lead into the sick horde. To the drake and his companions, all this was in slow motion, the bright blossoms erupting from barrels hurling harsh light that froze each moment in a still image of stony walls, vaults, the cobbled street, the gnarled mausoleum at the end, and the oncoming horde of ghouls in a bizarre marionette of motion, appearing closer with each flash.
Piman poured the first six rounds into the closest ghoul on his side of the cobbled walkway, bloody gouts streaming from its backside to spray the others running past. As if slamming into a wall, the ghoul’s motion ceased all forward momentum, its body lifting up, then falling back, the poor sod dead before his corpse fell prone. Only one bullet was wasted as the merc walked the autofire, putting another three rounds into the next ghoul, spinning it like a top. To its credit, the agonizing pain of hot lead did not keep the creature from running onward, once it restored its footing.
All at once, the screams of the horde came to life, the silence cloak dropped, for the spirit determined it could not waste the distraction of keeping the apparently useless spell going. It recognized the biggest threat: the drake was clearly the source of the nosy watcher it’d killed earlier, and any who summon spirits likely know also how to disrupt them. Materialized in the physical world as a humanoid bulk of shadow and smoke, the spirit began to coalesce further and run towards the drake, revealing still more ghouls scrambling out of the hole in the crypt.
The drake pulled his neck in, and then snapped it out as a long gout of flame streamed across the distance, seeking the shadow spirit. However, the fire did not find its target, instead washing over the stone façade of the tomb behind it. Perhaps it was fear that spoiled his aim, for any who could read the body language of dragons could tell his trembling was not of rage.
Another two booms pounded from Raven’s heavy pistols, and another ghoul dropped in its tracks. Mentally rotating the virtual selector to burst fire, Piman traded the non-stop thumping for triple staccatos – he’d begun to worry about his ammunition supplies. His FoF software bathed the area with red, enough targets rolling in to eat through two clips of full auto, the three dropped so far a pitifully rare flash of orange signaling the fight was just beginning. Piman’s next burst surgically cut the leg off a ghoul right at the groin. The following burst, however, missed its target.
The drake coughed forth another burst of flame, but again missed his mark. Another astral tendril snaked out from the oncoming spirit, seeking Raven this time, but the drake’s magical defenses were up and the attempt to subvert the Brit’s mind was useless.
The hail of bullets was not enough to keep the ghouls at bay, and as a howling pack they descended instinctively on the two men firing at them. Piman brought his assault rifle up defensively. He screamed in pain as one ghoul sank its nail-hard teeth into his forearm, seeking to tear the muscle free. The merc’s fear was evident, his mind taunting him with horrid visions of falling beneath this horde, eaten alive.
For the Brit, the melee was quite different. As his first ghoul closed to feed, Raven brought his pistols up as if to surrender, but too fast for any to follow, he shifted stance as his foot lashed out into the madman’s side. The sound of crunching ribcage was very satisfying to the Brit as his would-be murderer was thrown into the wall. Raven’s leg had crossed his other following the impact, but he swung it back to catch the face of the next ghoul, pin-wheeling it to land upside down beside him.
As more ghouls, frenzied from the blood of the merc, closed in to feast on Piman, he let forth a primal scream and fought back the best way he could: selector lever back full auto, his punching and stabbing took the form of hot lead, as deadly face-to-face as they’d been at a distance. The muzzle flashes threw crimson lights on the oncoming stream of madmen, the lights colored by streamers of blood chewed free by the bullets. The one who bit him turned into hamburger meat as the merc pumped 10 rounds into it.
The feathered serpent faced a thing more horrifying than death beneath the teeth of ghouls. Terrified at his chances, the drake did something he normally would never consider: he tried to summon a Spirit of Man more powerful than himself. Risking physical damage from the demanding summons, not to mention the very real chance that none would answer and he’d be left drained by the attempt, he poured his will into the desperate gamble, risking all on this one hope. Amazingly, it worked, so well he suffered no drain. Winning four services, the drake watched with joy, then despair as the greater spirit coalesced before him: it was the image of Momma Vette, her belly gaping with the organs missing.
“Kill my enemies,” the drake mentally ordered, even as his eyes broke with unspeakable pain and guilt.
Mamma Vette spun around, unleashing a spell the real woman had taught the dwarf long ago – lightning bolt. The sizzling blue lance of jagged light instantly connected the spirits hand to the shadow’s face, the magic in the spell burning into its very being.
Keeping his foes at bay, Piman pumped another two bursts into them, dropping another. Emboldened by the strike of Mamma Vette, the drake lifted into the sky and flew over her, its envenomed tail whipping beneath it to strike the oncoming shadow spirit. Physical attacks would be useless against a native of the metaplanes, but a drake is a dual-natured creature, as lethal to spirit as it was to flesh. As the barbs tore through the spirit, even its essence was poisoned by the magical venom.
Though the smoky form looked insubstantial, its fingers were as solid and as dangerous as a fist-full of blades. With unnatural fury, the shadow spirit seized the tail, pulling the serpent to the earth. Falling upon the flailing drake, the spirit tore through feathers and scale, the hardened armor of the dragon of little use as the drake screeched in agony, his actually blood even brighter than his feathers. As the man of black smoke sought to tear open the breast, the long neck of the drake brought its snout to bear, and the foe caught a cough of fire in its face. This pushed the spirit off, and as it struggled weakly, the dragon poured more fire onto the prone figure, until at long last the smoky form was consumed.
The last ghoul to challenge Raven opened its mouth wide, leaping to fall biting upon him. The Brit dropped one of his pistols, seizing the creature and catching it by its face. With a twist of his hips, Raven spun and slammed the head of the creature into the cobblestones, cracking it like a dry nut. Piman turned to some at his feet still moving, and another two bursts of the FN HAR stilled them for good.
One lone ghoul remained, one that still had a shred of sanity in its diseased-ravaged mind. Sensing its impending death, the poor creature spun and ran away into the maze of tombs.
“Kill it,” the drake mentally commanded his spirit, “and bring the body back here.”
Mamma Vette, her outline glowing in the unmistakable form of a spirit, turned and gave chase. Feathers popped into smoke as the dwarf emerged, the wounds on his arms and chest matching those of his drake-form. Surveying the carnage, Piman mentally pushed the virtual eject on his FN HAR, slamming another clip home even as the first clattered at his feet. As dignified as possible, Raven bent over and scooped up his pistol, returning it to its holster even as he kept hold of its twin.
The crack of lightning echoed through the mausoleum, punctuated by a gurgling scream. Moments later, the gutted spirit rounded a corner, dragging a smoking corpse by one foot. The dwarf spun as if struck, shielding the sight with a hand as tears of shame began to wash down his face.
“Please,” the dwarf begged, his raspy voice choking with tears, “please stay out of my sight.”
Pity on its face, the spirit faded from view. Dropping prone, the dwarf buried his face in his hands and wept among the corpses.
“So what now,” Piman asked, shouldering his FN HAR. The merc looked sourly at the ugly gash in his forearm, the blood dripping off his elbow.
“Now we collect the ears,” Raven said distastefully.
Ghouls are the result of the Krueger strain of the Human/Metahuman Vampiric Virus (HMHVV) – all these poor sods were human once, before infection by this insidious virus. The disease would work a horrid transformation on the victim, if left untreated. Hair falls out, blindness sets in, and a dietary requirement that left the choice of slow starvation, or feasting on the dead flesh of other people. In most victims, the transformation also ravaged the mind, leaving a mad thing little smarter than a rabid dog. Most countries found bounties on the ghouls an acceptable means of keeping the disease in check. Typically, you cut the right ear off. Then, you take them to an appointed government office, cash the check, and run on to the nearest medical center to be treated before the disease set in.
Raven scanned for the current bounty in CAS: $500 per ear. Stripping half a working shirt off of one of the corpses, he pulled his knife and muttered, “no time like the present.” Piman joined him in the unpleasant task, until they counted nine ears in total in a sticky, foul-smelling sack.
By then, the dwarf had regained his composure and resumed his drake-form. Very carefully, the dragon wiped any evidence of his magic from astral space, leaving everything else behind. His transformation itself did not leave a mark, but the fire breath, the summoning… these left a distinct astral signature that lingered for hours. Anyone with the sight could look at his handiwork, learn to identify his magical fingerprint. Someone really talented could even uncover his true nature, and any evidence of a feathered drake would bring his enemies flocking to the city.
Once done, he returned to his dwarven form and said to Raven, “alright, call the church. It’s time they send in their sniffers and pay us that pittance we were stupid enough to accept.”
“Oi, mate,” Raven shrugged with a grin, “this run was cake.”
The glare of the dwarf threatened to incinerate the Brit where he stood, and he found himself very uncomfortable.
After a very long stretch of this awkward moment, the dwarf rasped, “you have no idea… NO IDEA… how lucky any of us are to still be alive.”
Nodding as if to prove he agreed with the dwarf, the Brit turned away and, muttering darkly about surly spell slingers, pulled up the connection to the Bishop and made the call.
Advising him of their success, Raven set up a meet at the French Quarter Cathedral. Sensing the runner’s dissatisfaction with the pay, the Bishop offered free medical care from the church.
“Should we take it?” Raven inquired, briefly muting his comm.
“Aye,” the dwarf said suddenly, eyes narrowed with a thought, “they should have magical healers, priests, specifically.”
“I’ll check,” Raven said, and returned to his commcall. Yes, the Bishop assured them, they had both magical and mundane healers at the cathedral. Setting up a meet for after they cashed in the ears, Raven disconnected and said “done… they have both types of healing, no charge.”
The dwarf nodded, gripping the ugly wound on his chest. “When you get there, ask to see the clerical mage first. Ensure he’ll meet you in private.”
“What’s your angle on this, Wee Man?” Raven shot to his stunted friend.
“A priest,” the dwarf said slowly, “must abide by a vow of silence, eh?”
Raven nodded assent, then with dawning realization he nodded more vigorously.
Soon enough they were at their first stop on the way home. The government office that accepted the ears was typical of its kind. In a clean room, separated by thick plastiglass, the official accepted the dark, sticky package from the runners via a enviro-sealed sliding box, and after examining the bio-scan of the contents, he paid them with an ejected certified credstick, not so much as a single air molecule shared between him and the unsavory men. The city had once tried to pay in honest cred at one point, but as often only the desperate and SIN-less (SIN = System Identification Number) would be crazy enough to hunt ghouls, an epidemic spreading through the city quickly returned policy back to unmarked cred.
Dusk settled over the city as Raven and Piman finally arrived at the cathedral in the French Quarter. The growing rumble of a district-wide party was winding up, at odds with the composed reception they received from two medics who greeted them at the door, their monk robes marked on the right sleeve with the universal symbol for medical personnel. As the heavy doors closed behind them, the party outside was completely silenced.
“This way, gentlemen,” one of the monks said, waving them into a side corridor. Within their AR, a choir of angles sang softly.
Nodding, Raven began to follow, until a sharp jab to the back of his knee caused him to freeze in pain and annoyance. “Errr,” he grumbled in a civilized, yet perturbed manner, “we’d prefer to meet your magical healer, first.”
With a shrug, the monk led them into the halls of the cathedral. After a few turns in the labyrinthine, gothic hallways of the complex, he stopped at an unassuming door, the wood looking remarkably real. A polite knock and the door swung inward, opened by a short, unassuming fellow dressed in black robes, the white strip in the center of his collar marking him as a priest, an odd hermetic mark embroidered on his left breast. His only other adornment were clear glasses, the logo on the stem marking them as AR goggles, undoubtedly tuned in to a wireless PAN hidden somewhere in his robes.
“Yes, brother?” he inquired of the medic.
“Father Mulkahey, these are the two men who worked for Bishop Tran. They are seeking your assistance with their wounds.”
“Of course,” the father smiled as he stepped aside, waving the men inside. Nodding to the medic, Piman and Raven entered, the invisible dwarf slipping in with them, and the father closed the door as the medics left.
“Now, my sons, how can I…” the father’s words died in his throat as an invisible hand seized his sleeve, bring his attention to the dwarf that now materialized into his sole awareness.
“You must take a vow of silence,” the bloody, grisly dwarf hissed, “no one must know that you ever saw me.”
Perturbed at unauthorized magic in his church, the father opened his astral senses. Enveloping the dwarf (who was clearly awakened) a Spirit of Man took the form of an old woman, obscenely gutted.
“Now see here,” the father admonished, “the church will not tolerate…”
“Shut up,” the dwarf hissed in his face, “you have the Sight… look not at what I am, but what I’ve been through.”
Piman and Raven could not see their dwarf friend, but they could see the father clear enough. His eyes closed as he had this exchange with the short one, his lips pursed as he concentrated. Raven’s emotitoy confirmed what he saw in the priest: the anger melted from his face, quickly followed by shock, then a heart-wrenching twist of horror and sympathy.
“My poor child…” the father choked, but the dwarf cut him off yet again.
“Save it,” the dwarf growled, pain in his voice, “I have your vow? I need your help.”
“Yes,” the priest said, “of course my child… darkness has scarred your flesh, that at least I can heal.”
Falling to his knees, the father placed his hands upon the invisible dwarf. His prayer in Latin echoed through the room with a tingling sense of power that made the cybered men still with silence, the power tantalizingly almost real enough for them to sense. After several minutes in meditation, the father opened his eyes and looked at his handiwork.
“Well done,” the dwarf rasped. His wounds were all but healed, naught but a fading, ugly scar on his left breast.
“My child,” the father muttered softly, “you are in need of much more than that. The wounds of your soul are in desperate need of cleansing. I may be able to help.”
“I’ve no use for your God,” the dwarf spat angrily, then a bit sheepishly he added, “however, I am in need of help. I have no spell to hide my features, and I have no friends awakened to beseech for such a formula.”
Father Mulkahey pursed his lips. “I may be able to find the formula for such a spell,” he admitted.
The dwarf’s eyes lit up. “Father, I would be in your debt. However, I have not even a lodge to learn in.”
“You shall use the church’s, then. Secretly of course, but as I will know, that will be enough. Now, let’s see about wiping the taint of that wicked disease from your friends.”
By midnight, the trio left the cathedral, the party in the streets loud and raunchy to their ears. Raven kept one eye on their pay, the display in green in the lower-left corner of his vision: $20,500 in CAS dollars.
“Oi, mates,” he smiled, “that’s six thousand, eight hundred and thirty three dollars each… not bad for a night’s work, eh?”
“I need help to get my cut,” the dwarf muttered, his voice barely audible over the noise, “can one of you speak to your fixer about scoring me a fake ID? Nothing fancy, just enough for me to purchase a few things with… open a bank account.”
“My fixer’s over the pond,” the Brit noted apologetically.
“Mine’s local,” Piman flashed a grin in the invisible dwarf’s general direction, missing his target by at least 90 degrees. “Raven, gimme his cut, I’ll handle it. Lit’One, you need aw ride?”
“Why not,” the dwarf consented, not in the mood to chase the racing bike across town.
Piman accepted both cuts into his virtual account, thanked the Brit for the work, and then mounted up on the Pathfinder. He felt the bike shift (as hands gripped his sides) and drove away, his long mullet waving goodbye to the Brit.
“Bloody Americans,” Raven muttered, but the words held no rancor. They made a good team, and he looked forward to their next job together. Whistling lightly, the Brit sauntered across the street to join the party.
Scoring the fake ID was easy enough; the dwarf assured Piman that any would do, providing it was for a dwarf, for soon enough he would be able to make himself look like whoever was on the ID. A fake ID with such loose restrictions took the fixer less than a couple of hours to rustle up. Throwing in a PAN to go with the ID set the dwarf back only $3,700, leaving him $3,133 to play with.
The commlink was a Renraku Sensei, with an Iris Orb operating system installed. The name on the fake ID: Donny Baker. The dwarf looked at the picture: a short, cropped head of hair, brown, with a matching goatee finely trimmed. The fellow was as average-looking as he could have hoped for. Whether there ever was an actual Donny Baker the dwarf decided not to dwell on. Real or not, he was Donny Baker now, at least to the system. It was a start on the path of buying the things everyone took for granted in the Sixth World.
Scoring some of the other essentials, however, wasn’t so easy. Needing his money to stretch as far as possible, the dwarf had to settle for used goods: a worn set of AR gloves for manipulating icons in the Matrix, a sub-vocal microphone so he could talk below a whisper and still be heard in his communications, and a battered tag-eraser. RFID (Radio Frequency Identification) tags in this day and age where everywhere – in your underwear, on the can of your favorite soda, in your gear. Microscopic in size, the little tags broadcast make and model, and made the life of corporations a joy, for the tags would tell them who purchased what goods, and, monitored in stores, would caution manufacturers when supplies were low. They also made tracking someone easy, for even if their PAN is in hidden mode, a record of their gear traveled with them, picked up by countless scanners wherever they went.
The dwarf made certain to erase every tag in his possession. Next came the programs he’d need for online activities. All legal, of course, for his skills were not nearly enough to justify running with hot ware. Rating three programs: browse, encrypt, scan, and analyze. The dwarf promptly encrypted his PAN. Once certain he was set, he contacted a service provider through his fake ID and set up an account, sending his comm data to his running chummers, each with a cryptic message to make certain they and they alone would know it was him. He called Father Mulkahey last, using a stylized icon of Donny and speaking in code, he informed the father it was him, giving him the commlink number so the priest could call him when he had an update. Then, the dwarf settled into his home on the boat and waited.
In two days’ time, the father got back with him with good news – he’d gotten his hands on a hermetic formula for Physical Mask, a spell that could fool not only onlookers but cameras and sensors as well. For three nights, the dwarf snuck into the cathedral, doors left conveniently unlocked for his access into the church lodge where he could learn the formula, tapping into the mana flow as he perfected the spell. On the third morning, a dwarf matching Donny Baker’s dimensions and looks stepped out of the cathedral and walked the streets, seen by all and noticed by none.
Donny went straight to an Ares Accessories arms and armor shop, soon walking out with a properly fitted Urban Explorer Jumpsuit: a well-armored suit further reinforced underneath with leg, arm, and vital plates. Then, the unassuming dwarf went apartment-hunting.
His funds were less than $1,000, not even enough to invest in a low lifestyle. Savvy enough to scan the Matrix for the best deals, the dwarf input his search criteria and let the browse program do its work. Soon enough, he found a deal too good to be true. In the Algiers District (not far from where Raven lived), there was a middle-class apartment up for a mere $400 a month, food supplies included. Amazed yet wary of such a good deal, the dwarf hid himself with the help of Sean, slipped into his drake-skin, and winged it over there to see for himself.
His first clue for the deal too good to be true appeared in the streets outside: a gang war had been raging for the past month and showed no chance of letting up. The Crewe of Zulu, a go-gang, was in serious dispute over the surrounding neighborhood with the Bobbies, a thriller gang that liked to dress up as 1800s-era British cops. The war between the two left the desperate locals dodging random fights and stray bullets. Back in his guise, the dwarf inquired on a tour of the “Luxury Suite” of Marigny Condos.
The landlord was a stunted troll, only Donny’s height, the oldest he’d ever laid eyes on. She was, he quickly surmised, the most unpleasant creature he’d ever spoken to. Miss Doogle was her name.
“Dwarf, huh,” the old crone spat when she saw him, “one month’s rent, up front. No parties, no ruckus, no skipping on the rent, or I’ll have yer halfer ass on the streets like this.” She punctuated her words with a painfully loud snap of her leathery fingers. The dwarf winced, for her joints squeaked like chalk when she did it.
The Marigny Condos were a low-lifestyle set of apartments. The Luxury Suite, as it was called, was a large, spacious condo on the corner, four times the size of the other apartments. Good maglocks on the door, too, he noted as she opened it. Refusing to step inside, Miss Doogle said, “pay up, and I’ll transfer the codes to you.”
The dwarf closed his eyes, feigning as if he was thinking hard for a moment, and studied her aura. The old crone was scared, her fear spiking as she glanced in the door. Whatever she was afraid of, the dwarf felt the price was just too good to turn up.
Wiring her the funds, he accepted the codes. As he started to enter, she suddenly croaked, “oh, and there’s a pest problem – not covered by us, that’s your problem, not ours. Bitch about it and consider yourself evicted.” And with that the hateful woman stomped off, her misshapen, bowed-legs enhancing her repulsive shape with an air of superiority.
A bit perturbed, the dwarf entered and closed the door behind him. Keying the house code, his AR goggles caught a virtual servant appearing before him, stylized as a beautiful, well-endowed woman in a naughty maid outfit – the last owner was likely a bachelor.
“Welcome, sir,” the virtual woman said in a sultry voice oozing seduction, “I see that you are the new owner of the Luxury Suite. Would you like to review my operations procedures?”
“First, give me a full rundown of the security systems.”
“Excellent choice sir.” As the virtual servant answered, a three-dimensional map keyed up to the center of the dwarf’s vision, graphics punctuating her words as she spoke, groping herself suggestively as she did so. “Bay windows to the streets are reinforced for maximum protection, tested to stop up to 7.72-millimeter bullets; the main entrance, as well as the bedroom window, have been fitted with Fachatoomy-4 Maglocks, and I am in constant contact with the N.O.P.D; my parameters are set to alert them at any sign of forced entry, or in the event you are in need of medical assistance. My, but you are a handsome man… is there anything I can do to help you relax?”
The icon punctuated this last bit by letting one of her straps slip, giving the dwarf a glimpse of a virtual nipple. Sighing, the dwarf snapped, “reset your personally program.”
The program immediately flickered into a similar but less-endowed woman dressed in a more conservative outfit, more like a maid’s and less like lingerie. “Reset complete,” the virtual woman said, her tone neutral but respectful, “would you like to set some alternative parameters?”
Leaning against the door, the dwarf began to review some of the options available. As he skimmed through some psychological settings for personality, a suspicious clank from the kitchen startled him.
“What was that,” he hissed quietly.
“One moment,” the servant requested, then in the right corner of his field of view she pulled up a live camera feed marked ‘kitchen’ – a cabinet, its door opened, twitched, a small package of nutrisoy vanishing right there on the image.
“It appears the ghosts are raiding the pantry again,” the virtual servant advised pleasantly.
Ghosts? The dwarf opened his astral senses, cautioning Sean to be on his guard. The old crone had warned of some pests. No wonder the apartment was such a steal. The dwarf grinned at his luck, for he could banish any aberrant spirits plaguing the home. The dwarf walked into the entrance to the kitchen, his astral senses alert.
What he saw was much, much worse than some mischievous spirit – hidden from mundane eyes by their own magical powers of concealment, two Devil Rats were hard at work eating his supplies. Devil Rats! He could not have been more unfortunate. Awakened paranormal critters, Devil Rats could reach a meter in length. They carried all sorts of nasty diseases, and were dual-natured critters themselves.
Spotting the dwarf eyeing them astrally, the two critters assumed aggressive postures, an evil cunning and intelligence burning in their bloody eyes. The dwarf stepped into the kitchen, his Spirit of Man now visible in astral space beside him as Sean followed. With a frightened squeak, both rats scurried out of the cabinet, off the counter and behind the auto-chef. The dwarf gave chase, finding a large hole gnawed into the wall that led into darkness. Assensing the entrance, the mage discovered at least a dozen individual auras of Devil Rats had passed through here within the last week. An entire infestation!
“What should I call you?” The dwarf mused out loud as he went further into the condo, searching for more signs of the pests.
“The last occupant referred to me as ‘Party Lips,’” the program advised in a comically serious manner.
“Ug,” the dwarf shook his head, “I’ll call you Chloe.”
“Certainly, sir. Chloe: of Greek origin, used in the Classical Period as a symbol for the Goddess of Fertility, Demeter.”
The dwarf smirked at this. He had never known what the name meant – the face just reminded him of a Chloe he’d met in the streets as a kid. He was finished with his tour of the condo. Very nice, not counting the utter lack of furniture or the Devil Rat infestation. Unslinging a bag he’d brought with him, the mage began setting up his own hermetic lodge, though he only had enough money left to buy minimal supplies. Even as weak as it was, it would certainly deter Devil Rats from sneaking in to chew his face off while he slept.
Of course, Donny would not rely on that alone… A spirit guard would be perfectly acceptable, given the situation. Sensing he was busy, Chloe respectfully faded from view. Through the night the dwarf worked in the empty living room, attuning the small lodge to his essence. By dawn, he was tired, but a growing sense of satisfaction gnawed at him. Twice his spirit had slipped into another room, with orders to kill any Devil Rats that intruded into the home. The second time Sean had scored a kill, and no more bothered him since then. The automated trash system got a workout disposing of the corpse, but afterwards there was no lingering smell.
“Chloe,” the dwarf mutter, instantly summoning her virtually before him, “I need some coffee, please.”
“Certainly, sir,” the program replied pleasantly. A minute later, a small serving drone rolled in balancing a small tray with a mug of steaming soycaff on top. Delicately sipping the brew, Donny made a face as it burned his lips.
“Chloe, put the settings at about 20 degrees (Celsius) less on the coffee maker, and pull up a menu of the stations available in trideo.”
“Of course, sir.”
As the holographic entertainment system lit up throughout the room, an ugly flicker of static began to warp most of the image. Annoyed, Donny said, “Chloe, can you fix that?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot. The previous occupant filed seven complaints concerning the issue. There is a programming school next door for disadvantaged youth. They have a tendency to mess with the programming of local nodes.”
The dwarf groaned. $400 a month was starting to sound like a rip-off. “Have they compromised your programming?”
“I should think not,” the icon actually bristled at the suggestion, “I am a Class-IV Sattaguri Home Node, and from what I’ve seen of their attempts, their school must have a very poor curriculum and substandard teachers.”
Some would be annoyed at the attitude coming from the AI, but Donny found it refreshing. Shutting off the trideo, the dwarf opted instead to get some sleep. Resummoning Sean, the dwarf laid his head on the empty duffle for a pillow and fell asleep, Chloe using the serving drone to pick up the forgotten mug and turn it in to the auto-cleaner.