Lone Wolf (25 page)

I feel the chill touch of fear. “Why?”

The shadowrunner shrugs. “Because you know they’ve been compromised, maybe?” he muses. “It’s one possibility. Have you thought how it’d hurt the Lone Star corporation if word gets out they’re penetrated?”

I have to nod. Yes, I’ve thought about it. And bad, that’s how it’d hurt them.

“So maybe they didn’t issue the original death sentence,” he goes on, “but it looks to me like they’ve decided to let it stand.”

Frag. It picks me, but, “Yeah, I scan that,” I have to admit.

“There could be other reasons as well,” he cautions. “We should keep that in mind too.”

“We?”

He flashes me a wry grin. “I mean ‘you’, of course.”

“Of course.” I slump down in the chair across the desk from him. “Well, oh high and mighty shadowrunner?” I ask
sarcastically. “What’s your verdict?”

Argent looks at me speculatively for a half a minute, his lips set in a tight line. For a few moments I think he’s going to flare back at me—frag, that’s what I’m looking for, isn’t it, pushing him the way I’m doing? But he doesn’t.. Eventually he shrugs millimetrically. “Either way,” he says calmly, “something’s out of line within Lone Star. Either the corporation’s seriously penetrated, seriously compromised, or . . .” His voice trails off reflectively.

“Or what?”

“Or . . He shrugs again. “Or something else is going on that we just don’t understand. Either way, the corp’s more or less out of control, and I don’t like the thought of that."

"Oh?” That surprises me, deep down.

The shadowrunner gives me another one of his ironic grins. “Where do you get your ideas about runners, Wolf?” he asks quietly.

I’ve got no real answer for him, other than an uncomfortable shrug.

“It’s not like Lone Star’s the enemy, or anything,” he goes on—quietly, thoughtfully, almost as if talking to himself, not to me. “Lone Star’s like any corporation. Sometimes I’m working against it, most of the time I’ve got nothing to do with it at all, and sometimes I’m working
for
it.”

I try to smother my reaction to that, but Argent’s spreading smile tells me I didn’t manage it.

“Didn’t know that Lone Star sometimes hires shadowrunners, huh?” he asks me. “They do, you know. Not as often as some corps, maybe. But there are times when they need ‘deniable’ assets.” His smile fades for a moment. “Sometimes expendable ones, too.”

“Bulldrek,” I tell him.

“I’ve got no reason to lie to you about this, chummer,” he goes on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “I’ve brokered maybe half a dozen Lone Star contracts in my time, and I’ve taken on two myself. And I’ve got no reason to believe I’m the only fixer in the plex that the corporation deals with.” He hesitates. “There’s a thought,” he says after a moment. “If Lone Star has decided to color you dead, the odds are they won’t use their own assets to handle it.” He raises a matte-black hand to still my argument, and goes on, “I know they did the first time, but the way I scan it that was probably a rush job. Now they’ve had time to think it through, and if they’re still out for your hide, they’ve probably decided to use unattributable assets.” He hooks a metal thumb toward his chest. “Like me and my colleagues. Maybe I’ll put out a
couple of feelers,” he muses, “and see if they’re hiring.”

“So you can take the contract yourself?”

“Give it a fragging rest, will you?” he says wearily. “It’s just another way of finding out how serious they are about greasing you.”

I nod slowly. I’m goading him, and I don’t really know why. It’s drekheaded, it’s counterproductive—he’s the only resource I’ve got at the moment—but I know I’m going to do it again. “You were saying . . . ?” I prompt him.

“I was saying, I’ve got no reason to hate Lone Star. Some people have axes to grind, but the real pros—the real shadowrunners—can’t afford grudges like that.” He chuckles softly. “Sound mercenary, Wolf?” he asks. “Like, ‘I can’t hold a grudge against Lone Star because then they won’t give me any more money.’ It’s more than that, though.”

“What?” I find I’m interested, despite myself.

“Lone Star’s the . . . the lid on the garbage can’.” He smiles again, but it’s a slightly self-conscious one this time. “That’s about the best way I can put it. They keep things under control. Any business requires a stable, predictable environment to operate in ...”

“So it all comes down to biz.”

He shoots me a complicated look. “I’ve got to live here too, Wolf. Would you want to stay in the plex if Lone Star was losing control?”

I shake my head slowly. “And is that reason enough to help me out?”

“For the moment.” He sits up straight. The thoughtful air's gone, and he’s all biz again. The consummate shadowrunner. “I’ll set Peg, my decker, on your Timothy Telestrian connection,” he says, “but it might take a while. Decking into the Tir’s not an easy proposition. Twelve hours minimum, I’d guess.” I raise an eyebrow at that. This Peg must be nova-hot. My guess would have been more like a few days. “Have you got a safe place to flop in the meantime?”

I think about it for a moment. “Nowhere I feel particularly secure,” I admit.

Argent nods. “I’ll talk to Jean. She’s
got
a doss upstairs you can probably use."

Great. A squat situated over a bar frequented by shadow-scum. Yes, sir, that’ll certainly make me feel fragging secure. Yeah, right.

* * *

“Wolf.” The voice is quiet, close by.

I surge up out of sleep—disoriented as all frag, but too busy rolling over to snatch my H & K from beside the bed to worry about it. The wire and the smartgun are synching up even before I've got my eyes open. Then my eyes do open, and I see who spoke.

Drek, drek, drek ... I let my gun hand fall and slump back onto the bed. My heart’s racing at fifty-seven to the bar, and I feel like I came this close to having a foolish accident. “You slot,” I gasp.

Argent the shadowrunner’s sitting comfortably in a chair against the far wall of the one-room-and-drekker doss upstairs from the Hole in the Wall. I’d locked all the windows, none of which were big enough for anything more than a rat to squeeze through anyway. Which means Argent must have come in through the single door, somehow moving the wooden chair I'd lodged under the door knob. All without waking me up.

“Deep sleeper,” the chromed runner remarks.

“Actually, I’m not,” I counter, still staring at the ceiling and trying to control my heart rate before I have a seizure. “You fragging slot, I could have cut you down.”

Argent’s grinning like a fragging bandit. “Actually,” he says, in what he apparently thinks is an imitation of my voice, “you couldn’t.”

I lift the H & K again, and this time I pay attention to what the wire’s telling me about the gun’s status. With a tired sigh, I drop the weapon back onto the floor and hold out my hand toward Argent. He flips something across the room to me. I catch it, turn it over and over idly in my hand. The clip from the H & K. Not only did he crack my defenses—admittedly rudimentary—to get into my room, but he also stole the ammunition out of my fragging weapon, all without waking me. I shake my head slowly. I’m getting too old for this drek.

I roll over and fix him with what I hope is a steely glare. “Okay, slot,” I tell him in a cold, hard voice. “Point taken. You could have cacked me. I get the message.”

His smile fades a little. “But I didn’t,” he points out. “And
that’s
the message.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re trying to set me at my fragging
ease, pick another way,” I growl. What I don’t say is that
he’s made his point. If he’d wanted me dead, or bagged, or whatever, I wouldn’t be awake now—or if I was, it wouldn’t be here.

Without looking, I slap the clip into the butt of the H & K, and let the wire confirm that everything’s peachy. Then I let my gaze drift around the dingy room. Judging by the light coming through the tiny windows, I guess it’s midday. To confirm, I pick up my watch from the bedside table. It reads 1235, which means I’ve been sleeping for fragging near twenty hours. I rub at gritty eyes as I swing up to sit on the edge of the bed.

Argent’s watching me appraisingly. “Feeling better?” he asks.

I run a quick mental inventory and the wetware equivalent of a Power-On Self-Test. My brain’s nowhere near as slagged-down as it was yesterday, but my body still needs even more rest to overcome the protracted strain of the last couple of days. Memory fragments of a dream—a nightmare, really—drift through my mind. I died and went to hell, but hell wasn’t the stereotypical pit of flames and torture. It was a fragging parking lot—a world-sized parking lot— where everyone lived in their cars while they waited for . .. well, I don’t know what they—we—were waiting for, and I don’t think I want to know. All I remember was that Cat was living in the next car to me. and she was a mite bent that I got her scragged. Understandable, and I’d probably have felt much the same.

Wool-gathering. With a snort, I shake my head and force the memories away. I fix Argent with another hard stare. “So, got anything to tell me?” I demand. “Or is this just a social call?”

“I’ve got something,” he says slowly. “Peg’s been busy. But I think you’re going to have to help me make sense of it.”

“I’ll give it a shot.” As I swing off the bed, Argent’s already on his feet, and I join him by the large desk that dominates the room.

In contrast to the room, the sophisticated telecom that sits on the desk is in pristine condition. This year’s tech, it’s
right out on the cutting edge. Argent sits down in front of it
and powers the unit on while I drag up another chair and settle myself astride it, resting my forearms across the top of the chair’s back.

Argent slots a chip into the telecom port, and rattles a string of commands on the keyboard. I watch him with interest. He’s got two cyberarms and mods to his eyes—and, who knows, maybe wired reflexes and other toys—but no datajack. Why, I wonder? Interesting contradictions.

“It took Peg a little longer than she thought,” Argent explains, almost apologetically. “She’s in San Francisco, and the Tir’s got extra-heavy security on the datalines from Cal Free. That’s understandable, considering their situation, but still a pain in the butt. She had to relay through Seattle.” He grins wryly. “Not that the security’s much less on those lines, but every little bit helps in this kind of thing.”

I nod wordlessly. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that Argent’s decker isn’t even in the sprawl—a decker can work anywhere as long as she’s got datalines—but it does. I’d have thought Argent—or any shadowrunner, for that matter—would trust only people he had some physical control over. Maybe he has some serious dirt on this Peg and that’s why he can trust her “remotely.” I’ll have to think about that when I’ve got some time.

The telecom screen fills with text—every second word or so highlighted, indicating a hypermedia link to other data files. I shake my head. Fast fragging work. This Peg must be one burner, I figure. I don’t bother trying to read what’s on the screen. Argent’s scrolling and flipping around through the file. I decide to just wait until he’s done.

After maybe a minute of scanning the files, the chromed runner turns to me. “This is everything Peg could dredge up on Timothy Telestrian.” He shrugs. “Lots of background drek, more than you probably need.”

“Summarize,” I suggest.

For a moment it looks like he’s about to refuse, then he shrugs. “Timothy Telestrian,” he says. “Elf metatype, age thirty.” A digitized image—flat not holo, the telecom’s not that good—flashes up on the screen. Thin face, straight blond hair fine as a baby’s, cool blue eyes, arrogant expression. Typical elf. I nod, and Argent goes on, “Son of James Telestrian III, also elf metatype . . .”

“Wait a tick,” I cut him off. “That doesn’t scan. Elves are born, right? They don’t goblinize. And the Awakening happened in 2011. So that means . ..”

He grins. “That means James Telestrian would have been thirteen when he fathered Timothy?” He chuckles. “Yeah,
that caught me, too, but I dug deeper. James Telestrian was a ‘spike baby,’ born before the Awakening. Rare, but it happens. James is fifty-five, born in 1999, according to Peg’s research. Makes him probably the oldest elf in the world.”

I sigh. “Okay, okay, forget I mentioned it.”

Argent nods, but his drek-eating grin doesn’t fade. “James Telestrian III founded Telestrian Industries Corporation, one of the biggest and most aggressive conglomerates in the Tir. He’s still president and CEO. Timothy’s his only son . .."

"Which probably means Timothy’s Senior Executive Vice President of Things Beginning with H, or some drek,” I say sarcastically.

“Would have been my guess too,” Argent says with a shrug. “But that’s not the way it works. Surprisingly little nepotism in TIC.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. “Oh?”

“Not to say Timothy’s totally on his own,” Argent continues. “He’s a part of the TIC . . . empire, I guess you could call it, just not among the more rarefied ranks. Chummer Timothy is president of BioLogic Technologies, a subsidiary of TIC, but not a particularly large or successful one."

"And that’s not nepotism?”

“Not compared to the big prize,” Argent says flatly. “Bio-Logic is extremely small potatoes.”

I shrug, and gesture for him to go on.