Choose Your Enemies Carefully Read online

  WHEN MAGIC RETURNS TO THE EARTH

  its power calls Sam Verner. As Sam searches for his sister through the slick and scary streets of 2050, his quest leads him across the ocean to England, where druids rule the streets ... and the throne. But all is not what it seems, and Sam and his new shadow friends are plunged into a maze of madness on the trail of destruction.

  Only when Sam accepts his destiny as a shaman can he embrace the power he needs. But what waits for him in the final confrontation of technology and human flesh is a secret much darker than anything he knew lay waiting in the shadows ...

  WILL THE VILLAINOUS MAN OF LIGHT HALT SAM’S QUEST FOR POWER?

  Sam rebounded.

  The Man of Light blazed before him, glowing bulk filling the tunnel. There was no way around the Man. Sam darted away into a side passage and almost immediately pulled up short to avoid running into the Man of Light again as the gleaming figure suddenly flared into existence in Sam’s path. Sam spun to retrace his path, but, again, the Man confronted him. He twisted his head to look over his shoulder.

  It was dark. By the time he had turned around, the Man was there, in front of him. Sam raised a hand to shield his eyes from the brilliance.

  The Man of Light laughed at him.

  SHADOWRUN: CHOOSE YOUR ENEMIES CAREFULLY

  SHADOWRUN: 2

  CHOOSE YOUR ENEMIES CAREFULLY

  SECRETS OF POWER VOLUME 2

  ROBERT N. CHARRETTE

  To Crick, who didn’t believe me about Battletech either.

  PART 1

  We All Wear Masks

  1

  Three days ago, the pain had seemed unbearable. But as time passed, the constant discomfort lessened the burden by dulling her senses. As late as this morning, she thought that she had grown used to it. Then the cramps had started. The crippling agony had wracked her with increasingly frequent spasms all day. Now, it was almost dark.

  She didn’t dare cry out.

  A new spasm tore at her intestines and clawed its way up her torso, firing her insides with blazing agony. Despite her best intentions, she screamed as her muscles knotted in the brutal grip of the convulsion.

  As the wave of pain ebbed, she lay panting, certain that she had betrayed herself. Slowly, painfully, she dragged herself deeper into the gloom of her chosen shelter. The inhabitants of this rundown building, if there were any, remained hidden. Her only company was her misery. Moaning at the pain accompanying her every movement, she forced her legs to carry her up the stairs. If she could get far enough away, they might not find her tonight. The ravening fire in her belly threatened to overwhelm her, but she hugged one arm across her stomach and continued, bracing herself against the stairwell wall with the other.

  She only made it up two flights before she collapsed, whimpering. Silently she cursed her waning strength. Orks were supposed to be tough. The physical power she had known for the last year had been the only compensation for her change, and now that strength had abandoned her. Just like Hugh. And Ken before him. Even her brother had left her to be disposed of with the rest of the unsightly trash.

  They could all rot in hell.

  The blaze inside her had died to coals, a hot pain but bearable. In the recession of the pain, she became aware of a bone-numbing ache in her limbs. Her muscles, exhausted from her climb, trembled. Her skin was clammy with sweat and itched unbearably. She wanted to puke.

  Her position on the landing offered her a view into one of the derelict apartments. The darkening sky was framed in the room’s window. Outside, the lights of Hong Kong sparkled awake, forming constellations of sublime and taunting beauty. The thin, seesaw wail of a police siren drifted in through the open aperture. It offered no hope of rescue. None of the corporate police ever came to the Walled City. Not even the Enclave Police Agency, money-grubbing hirelings that they were, could be easily bribed to appear in the Walled City after dark. Gangs ruled the Walled City, and many of them hunted the changed for fun.

  A scuffing sound came from the bottom of the stairwell and she froze. Her physical torment vanished in a rush of fear. Praying all the while, she strained to hear anything further. The noise began again, and she recognized the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  She pushed off with her arms, forcing herself upright. The world spun around, but she managed to stay on her feet and stagger up another flight. This landing was as littered with trash as the last, but several of the rooms on this floor still had doors. That meant someone still lived here. Hoping the hunters wouldn’t press the search into occupied areas, she chose an open doorway and headed for it. As she attempted to pass through the doorway, her head slammed against the lintel. The shock forced an involuntary grunt of pain.

  In the distant lower darkness, there was a sudden silence.

  She listened, but there was no sound. The hunters would be listening, too.

  Minutes crawled by.

  Her eyes were good in the dark. If she stood by the railing and looked down, she might be able to see who was on the stairs. She didn’t dare try. Even if she managed to suppress the vertigo, she would be exposing herself. There were others who could see in the dark even better than she.

  Her legs began to tremble again, and she felt her fear-induced strength fading. She wouldn't be able to remain standing for long. Ducking her head, she slipped through the doorway. She stretched out an arm and gripped the door, swinging it slowly closed. It made no sound that she could detect. That was good. If she couldn’t hear it, they probably couldn’t either.

  The locks on the door were gone—only splintered wood marked their former presence. Not that it mattered; if the hunters tracked her here, a locked door wouldn’t stop them. Her only hope was that they would pass by.

  The room was a sty, a haven for drifters and the homeless. From the discarded chip casings scattered about she knew that it had seen its share of Better-Than-Life parties. It would take a simsense world to make this dump vaguely resemble a place to spend any time at all. Any time at all? She might be spending the rest of her life here.

  She could see nothing that might conceivably be used as a weapon. That really didn’t matter—she barely had the strength to stand; she would be useless in a fight. She staggered across the debris-strewn floor, barely reaching the far wall before her limbs failed her. She found herself on the floor, not knowing whether she had made any noise in falling. There was no sound of eager ork-bashers rushing up the stairs. Maybe her collapse had been silent. Maybe they would not think to look in this room. Maybe she could go back to her old life.

  This squat was an awful place to die. Huddled and heartsick, she waited. If she had had the strength, she would have cried.

  From the other side of the door she heard the soft scuff of a cloth sole. Someone had found her hiding place. Faintly, she heard the sound of the lurker sniffing the air. It was an animal sound, like that of a hound on a scent. After a moment the noise stopped, then she heard a brief scrape of clawlike fingernails scratching the wood near the top of the door. There was a brief return of the sniffing sound, then all was quiet again.

  There was no reason to believe that the lurker had left. Perhaps he was patiently listening at the door, waiting for her to make the movement that would betray her. If she’d had the strength, she would have crawled out the window and taken her chances on the crumbling facade. A week ago she would have been strong enough to scale the wall to safety. Now, her muscles were too weak. Only her fear was strong.

  She knew she had not fooled them when she saw the doorknob begin to move. It turned slowly, as if the lurker himself was afraid. Afraid of sudden movement that might frighten his prey. Predators moved that way; slowly and with deliberate care.
<
br />   She began to think that she had guessed wrong about the nature of her hunters. Gangs made a show of their kills. This sneaking caution wasn’t their style. They wouldn’t be worried about disturbing any squatters in the building. They would just barge in and, if they had picked the wrong apartment, barge right out again. This stealthy approach argued a hunter who did not wish to disturb any residents. Deciding that she was not being stalked by ork-bashers gave her no relief; there were worse, far worse, hunters that stalked the night in the Awakened World.

  The catch disengaged, the door swung open. Moving languidly, it yawned wider, until she could see the landing. There was nothing there.

  Helpless before whatever was stalking her, she stared at the opening. There was a movement low on the left side of the frame, and a face appeared there. The angle of the head suggested that the face’s owner had crouched before peering around the frame—a simple precaution to avoid offering an immediate target.

  Her stalker’s face was long and drawn. Sallow skin stretched tightly over prominent bones, and dark, dark eyes were pools of night under slanted lids. Nostrils distended, and she heard the sniffing sound again. The lurker straightened, head twisting as he took in the room and its contents. As he focused on her, he grinned. His mouth was overfull of sharp, pointed teeth.

  Lord almighty, you have delivered me to ghouls!

  A second face appeared on the other side of the doorway. It too was almost skeletal in its thinness. Unlike the first, his dark eyes were not slanted, but his skin was as pallid. The flesh of both ghouls was tinted a sickly yellow.

  The second one mimicked the actions of the first, turning his head with sharp motions as it surveyed the room. Apparently satisfied that she was alone, he entered. He was big and filled the frame as he passed through. His entry stirred the stagnant air of the room, swirling dust aloft and carrying a putrid scent to her nostrils. The owner of the first face scurried in behind him. She could see others gathered on the landing.

  The two ghouls moved toward her cautiously, as if they expected her to attack. She had intimidated a lot of people in the last year. She shifted and raised a hand. It was all she could do and she almost blacked out from the effort. Unaware of how helpless she was, they flinched back. It was a small victory, but all she was likely to get. She had no strength to resist them. The ache in her limbs had kindled to fire and she wilted in the rising blaze.

  When they saw that she made no further motion, they resumed their approach. Just short of her outstretched leg, the big one halted. The smaller one sidled carefully up to the other, sheltering behind his broad back. The big one crouched. With a start, the other followed suit to avoid being exposed. A soft hissing came from the others gathered in the hall.

  The big one reached out a tentative finger to poke her. When she didn’t respond, he ran his hand down her calf in a caress as he spoke to his companion. Most of his words sounded like gutter Chinese, but some were Japanese and English. His accent and the speed with which he spoke left her uncomprehending. The small one straightened and took a step back. Watching her with wary eyes, he backed away.

  They remained like that for a time. She lay still, her only action an occasional convulsion or shiver. The big ghoul stood silently by the door, watching her and waiting. Maybe they had to gather the rest of the pack before they feasted. Now that they had cornered her, she found it hard to care. If they killed her, the pain would stop. Once she was dead, what they did to her body wouldn’t matter to her. Having surrendered to her despair, she found it easy to contemplate surrendering to the insistent call of oblivion.

  A commotion roused her from her drifting semiconscious state. Though still racked with pain, she found herself able to shift her head slightly. It was night—or night again. She had no way of knowing. The big ghoul was still in the room, but he had changed his position. The small one was returning, leading a figure much bigger than himself. She wasn’t really sure who or what the newcomer was. She couldn’t seem to focus clearly on him. One moment he seemed huge and menacing, a lumbering furry hulk; the next, he was a slim, strongly-built man attired in street leathers.

  He entered the room, moving confidently and showing none of the fearful reticence of the ghouls. Kneeling beside her, he placed a hand on her wrist. To her surprise, he showed no reluctance to touch her. Hugh hadn’t been reluctant, either. The stranger felt her pulse while he visually examined her. She noted that his eyes stopped at the band on her left wrist. Completing his survey, he looked her in the eyes and smiled.

  "Don’t be afraid," he said in Japanese. "They won’t hurt you."

  "Why’d you pick Japanese?" she asked. She wasn’t ready to trust him yet. Anyone who ran with ghouls was an outlaw. But then, she was an outlaw herself now.

  He briefly shifted his glance to the band before speaking. "I’ve been to Yomi, too."

  Nothing else was said for a minute. What needed to be said? Anyone who knew Yomi understood pain and fear. She felt suddenly reassured. Not all outlaws were criminals by choice. Maybe he was a shadowrunner, one of those renegades from the corporate world who fought injustice. Or he might be a murderer. How could she know?

  "What is your name?" he asked.

  "Janice."

  "No family name?"

  "No family."

  "I see. I am called Shiroi, Janice. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."

  His politeness seemed all out of place in the crumbling ruin, but still she felt embarrassed by her churlishly terse responses. Nevertheless, doubts and suspicion ruled her tongue. "Why is that?"

  "There is no need for you to be so defensive. I would be the last one to take you back to Yomi."

  "I didn’t think that you were jigoku-shi."

  "I am no master of hell. I assure you that I have no connection with those abhorrent racists."

  No, he wasn’t. He was too handsome to be jigoku-shi. But no man walks the face of the earth alone. "Who do you work for?"

  "Myself."

  So ka. If he wasn’t lying, he’d want to be recompensed for his trouble. In the last year she had learned about paying her own way. "I haven’t got any credit to pay you."

  "I am not asking for payment, Janice. In my own small way, I am a philanthropist. I take joy in helping people adjust to their new lives. I look forward to helping you find your way."

  Could she believe him?"All I want to find is a way to escape this pain and a way to get out of this dump."

  "That I can arrange."

  He began to sing softly. Succumbing to his song, she passed away from her pain and suspicions, falling into a healing sleep.

  2

  The passengers were nervous—with good reason. Sam Verner was nervous himself, and he didn’t have any guns pointed at him. To the terrified corporates huddling in their seats, the shadowrunners would seem much like rabid beasts, ready to savage them for no reason. Such an evaluation might in fact not be too far from the truth. It was certainly Sam’s own assessment of the unstable muscleboy in front of him.

  Jason Stone was short, but he didn’t need the heavy-barreled Sandler TMP submachine gun in his hands to give him a dangerous presence. The Indian’s rebuilt muscles and quick, nervous motions told their own tale. He was what was known in the alleys as a street samurai, muscle for hire, chromed with cyberware to set him beyond the frailty of the flesh. Like many of his kind, the trade of meat for machine meant that some of his spirit had been tossed out with the undesired body parts. The cold chrome eye shields shuttered the windows to what was left of his soul, but his leering smile exposed what was left of his emotions, leaving no doubt that he would be happy to use his weapon.

  At the other end of the cabin, Fishface George and Grey Otter were menacing the crew in similar fashion. They were samurai too, though less extreme examples of the breed, and neither walked as close to the edge of sanity as their leader. That was just as well. Sam needed the muscle for cover, but he didn’t think he could deal with more than one samurai of Jason’s hellbe
nt aggressiveness.

  Sam slid past Jason. He knew that he was blocking some of the samurai’s field of fire, but he was confident that the others would cover the gap. They always had before. They might not like Sam, but they knew he was their meal ticket. They’d keep him safe until they were paid off.

  "Two minutes, Sir Twist," buzzed the receiver in Sam’s ear. Sam nodded unconsciously to the speaker, but Dodger couldn’t see the acknowledgment. He was on a remote broadcast, the only way to link the elf’s position in the Matrix with Sam’s ground team aboard the shuttle craft. Dodger could have left the mundane time count to a subroutine, but his personal attention indicated his concern. They were all expecting the run to be easy, but Dodger was playing cautious. If anything blew up, a subroutine would be outclassed and purged by intrusion countermeasures before Sam could know about it. An on-line decker was Matrix security that every shadowrunner wanted.

  In two minutes, the craft’s preplanned ground time would be up and, by then, the Aztechnology shuttle was supposed to be airborne, on its way to the Sea-Tac international airport. If the runners delayed it, the metroplex air traffic control would be alerted. The plan called for the shuttle to lift on schedule, giving the runners time to get away with their prize before pursuit could be called in. They had managed to board just as the craft was leaving the gate, successfully slipping past the ground crew. So far, only the passengers in the main cabin knew of their presence. Dodger’s black box had frozen communications with the pilot's compartment as soon as Sam had affixed it to the wall. They should have been gone already, slipping away into the night, but their man hadn’t responded to the code phrase when they had announced their presence to the passengers. Time was trickling away.

  Where was Raoul Sanchez?

  Sam moved down the aisle, checking faces. The craft swayed as it continued its taxi. Fringes on his jacket’s arms brushed across the tops of the outer seats as he passed, occasionally flicking into the face of one of the seated passengers. No one complained.