Never Trust an Elf Page 2

  Once he'd reached that conclusion, he hadn't wasted time. He'd started to put the gang to decent use and done a few small jobs, smart stuff that was practically built into the system, like looting the corp trucks running along 412, and only taking what couldn't be traced. After they'd made a couple of hits, his fixer had realized that Kham wasn't just another stupid ork kid out to break some heads, and so he'd turned him on to Sally Tsung's ring. Lady Tsung introduced Kham to the lucrative life of shadowrunning, and one payoff was all it took for him to see the light; corp snitching just couldn't compare. He'd dropped the gangs and signed on with Lady Tsung.

  His hard-built alliance had crumbled while he attended to other matters, but he hadn't cried. He'd worked to build the gang, using it to his advantage while still the boss, but he didn't need it anymore. Nothing wrong with that. That was the way the world worked. You grabbed what you could, held on as long as you needed it, and when something better came along, you grabbed that instead. Had to keep the nuyen flowing in. Had to look out for yourself.

  Shadowrunning offered almost everything the gangs had. There was action, excitement, and firepower— lots of firepower on the right run. The only thing missing was the power and the respect, the chance to make a difference on your turf, and all the chummers looking up to you. Then again, maybe running the shadows did offer those things, but in a different way. A runner could make a difference, but it was subtler, excepting of course the differences to your cred balance. Those differences were truly truly sig—at least when the nuyen was rolling in. And the respect was there too. The scuzboys and streetrats like those Ironmongers gave wide berth to Kham now that word was about that he played in the big leagues. It was the personal stuff that wasn't there. Sure, he had his guys, and they were some of the best rocking orks ever to pack big guns, but they were runners like him and mostly loyal to the biggest buck. They weren't his the way the gang had been.

  Drek! He was supposed to be thinking about the future, not the past. Only old guys found the past brighter than the future and Kham was not an old guy yet!

  Kham heaved himself up, ready to be on his way, when some old fool plowed into him. Kham swung a hard backhand, then realized halfway through the swipe that the idiot wouldn't have gotten close enough to collide if Kham hadn't already dismissed him as a threat. Kham pulled his punch, but he still bounced the guy into the wall. Catching him on the rebound off the brick, Kham recognized the slag, and his condition.

  "You're blasted. Kittle George.'"

  "Huh?" The gray-haired ork frowned as he tried to bring his vision into focus. "Kha—"

  Kham heaved him upright in time to avoid getting splashed when Kittle George started to vomit. Kham watched in disgust. This was how old orks ended up.

  Kittle George swayed erect and staggered on down the street. Too drunk to walk a straight line, he caromed off the street folk he passed as he stumbled along the sidewalk. Kham caught up with him in a few strides, grabbed an arm, and hauled him erect.

  "Ya oughta go home, Georgie."

  "Am goin' home," Kittle George slurred.

  "Yer home's da odder way."

  Kittle George looked around confusedly, then squinted at Kham. "I knew tha'."

  Kham shook his head sadly. "Ya want me ta walk ya dere?" He didn't really want to, but he thought he should offer. Kittle George was ork, too, and orks had to stick together. Besides, walking Georgie home would mean putting off going home himself for a bit longer.

  They strolled along the streets. Kham keeping his pace to something Kittle George could manage. Taking the offered bottle, Kham took the swig required of friendship, then managed to drop the bottle. Accidentally, of course. Then he had to drop it again before the brittle plastic would shatter. Georgie cried over the loss, embarrassing Kham, but fortunately he didn't recognize anyone in the crowds that flooded around them. He got Kittle George underway again.

  The old ork started mumbling a long list of complaints. Life hadn't been treating him very well. But that was no surprise. He was ork. What did life have for orks besides trouble anyway?

  They had reached Kittle George's place, a condemned tenement just like the others lining the streets. The Seattle metroplex government had condemned it, then left it: lacking the money to trash it. they certainly did not have enough to replace it. People still lived there because it offered a roof and walls. The rent was cheap, too. Kittle George had prime space in the basement, the warmest spot in an unheated building during the winter. Kittle George had company then; but it was still autumn and the neighbors hadn't moved in yet.

  "Ya gonna be okay, Georgie?"

  "Yeah. Gonna get some sleep. Wish I had a bottle, though."

  "Sleep's good, Georgie." Hoping the old guy would forget about the bottle, Kham pointed him toward the stairs and made sure the drunk had a grip on the rail before urging him down into the darkness. "Just get some sleep."

  The old man mumbled something as he went down the stairs, but Kham didn't understand a word of it. Booze and age, the bane of an ork's life—if despair and drugs didn't get him first.

  As Kittle George disappeared, a shadow fell over Kham. He turned slowly, careful to avoid sudden moves. The big troll he found grinning at him was familiar. Grabber worked as a bouncer at Shaver's Bar; he also was a small-time fixer. The troll's operational area ran about five blocks north and south of Kittle George's, along Cullen, and out west all the way to the wall that marked the Salish-Shidhe boundary with the plex. The troll was rumbling with a deep chuckling.

  "Hoi, Grabber. Whuzzappenin' down at Shaver's?"

  "Hoi, Kham," the troll boomed. "Bodyguarding these days, chummer?"

  Kham shrugged.

  For a troll, Grabber was moderately bright; the troll picked up on the fact that Kham didn't find any humor in his poor joke, and so tried some more innocuous small talk. "Been quiet at the club, Just the usual. No sweat 'cepting Saturday night."

  Kham had heard about the riot. "Local scuzboys giving ya trouble?"

  "Nah." Grabber cracked his knuckles, and smiled. "Just a workout. Ain't seen you lately."

  Kham shrugged again. He hadn't worked Grabber's turf in a while—and after what had happened the last time, he hoped he wouldn't be anytime soon, either. Who could say, though? Things had been pretty slow lately. "Been busy."

  "Not what Lissa says. Says you been hanging home a lot. Things slow?"

  Did everybody know? He stifled a sharp retort. Gotta stay chill, he told himself. If you say you ain't doing biz, you don't do no biz. Nobody wanted a washed-out runner. For the third time, Kham shrugged, but this time he added a raised eyebrow to let Grabber know he'd listen.

  The troll made an elaborate affair of checking the now sparse street crowd to see if anyone was close enough to hear. "Jack Darke's running. Looking for muscle, I hear."

  "Solo, or he need a whole gang?"

  "Solo."

  "Personal interest on Darke's part, or will any ork do?"

  "Must be personal, chummer. Otherwise I'd be running it instead of shopping it to you."

  Kham hesitated. Once he would have jumped at the chance. Drek. maybe he should jump at it. He could convince himself that he needed the work, couldn't he? That the other guys didn't matter. But he didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the offer. "Ain't interested," he said sourly. "Ain't no room in da run for my guys, ain't no room for me. When ya got a crew ta worry about, ya got responsibilities."

  "Responsibilities tie a man down, chummer."

  "What would ya know about dat, Grabber?"

  It was Grabber's turn to shrug. "I hear things." Kham was annoyed by the turn of the conversation. "Well, ya ain't hearin' yes from me. Darke'll have ta find his muscle somewhere else."

  Grabber squinted his larger eye almost shut, and leaned down. His voice was modulated to a conspiratorial tone, which meant it could probably be heard only half a block away. "Last chance. Good money, all certified cred."

  "Some odder time."

  Straightening
up. Grabber said, "You called it, chummer. Maybe some other time. Maybe not. Stay chill, chummer. Careful you don't get so cold you freeze."

  "My worry, Grabber."

  "Like I said, chummer, you called it," the troll replied. He eased his way down the street, amusement rumbling deep inside him.

  Angered by the troll's reaction, Kham watched him go. Did it really matter what the troll thought? Grabber was small fish. But then, so was Kham. Darke, now. Darke was a bigger fish. Not as big as Sally Tsung, but bigger than Grabber and Kham. But Darke was running and Sally wasn't, which meant Darke was paying and Sally wasn't.

  Drek! If he didn't take it himself, he might have hired out one of the guys. Rabo had kids, too, and was as hard up for cash. They all needed to score. So why was he worrying about the guys when he had troubles of his own? Why didn't he just take the job and put the nuyen in his own pocket like any corp putz would do? Responsibilities? Drek! He hated being grown up.

  Grabber was almost out of shouting range. It wasn't too late to call him back, and Kham almost did. Then he thought about how that would look to the fixer.

  Besides losing face, Kham was sure that the pay offered for the run would now be less than it was. With Darke's personal interest, that price would have been Kham's going rate. Calling Grabber back, making himself look hungry, would drive the fee down. If he took the run at the lower price, word of it would get around and that would also be bad for business. Once a shadowrunner's price starting going down, it wasn't likely to go up again. The jobs would get cheaper and cheaper and eventually you'd face a dirty run for dirt and then you'd end up under the dirt. Kham wasn't ready for that, so he let the troll go on walking.

  But maybe he was ready to go home. It was almost dark, but still early enough that Kham didn't feel underarmed with his Smith and Wesson .45 in his side holster and the Walther in the underarm sling. His thirty-six-centimeter survival knife slapped against his thigh, reminding him that he had blades as well: two cutters in boot sheaths and a half-dozen shivs in various other concealed sheaths. He had a pair of knucks in his jacket pocket, too. Not much, but then he'd be home before the real predators came out.

  The people on the street were mostly orks now. Kham tried to tell himself that there were no more chipheads on the street than before, that it was just a change in the proportions of straight to chipped. But he knew better. There really were more of the sim-sense addicts and most of those new addicts were orks. Chipheads were lost in their simsense fantasies and rarely showed the caution a straight—norm or ork— would show. Day or night, they lived somebody else's life inside their heads. Who knew what time it was in there?

  Kham buzzed. He kept aware of his surroundings, as was prudent, but he tried to tune out the chipheads. He wasn't very successful. Too many of them had his brother's face.

  By the time he hit his neighborhood, he was really sour. He checked his stride as he turned onto Greely and saw three orks of his crew gathered in front of Wu's grocery. The guys were obviously keeping watch on somebody down the street. Kham cheered up; maybe there would be a little action to make him feel better. He started forward again, his step livelier. John Parker was the first to notice him coming.

  "Hey, hoi, Kham. Where ya been, bossman?" '"Round." They went through the ritual punching and tussles. "Whuzzappenin'? Got hostiles on the turf?"

  "Nah," Rabo whined. "Nothing so much fun. Then again, maybe there will be fun. Got a suitboy looking for you by name."

  "He's hanging over there," Ratstomper said, pointing with her head. A man stood in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, next to a fire-gutted tenement in the next block down. "Told him to wait. We knew you'd be along."

  Kham looked and noted that the man was unfamiliar. He was also a stranger to Orktown. Though he was wearing a long coat, lined with armor no doubt, thrown open and back to reveal street-smart leathers, he was clearly not at home on the streets. He looked too nervous. Kham thought that he'd probably smell that way close up. This slag was a suit, no doubt about it.

  The man was tall and on the thin side. Though too bulky for an elf, he might be mistaken for one by a less astute observer. He didn't fool Kham, though. He wondered if the suit knew how dangerous such a resemblance could be. If he did, he had plenty of reason to be nervous. The Ancients, an elf biker gang with no permanent territory but claiming all of Seattle for their own, had rumbled through two nights ago. Those elves had no friends in Orktown and had used their visit to make a few more enemies. Tempers were still up, and any elf, or even a human who looked like one, could end up the target of well-deserved hate. If the suitboy knew what had gone down, he was brave to come around without backup. It was surprising he'd gotten this far unmolested. Maybe the fact that Kham's guys were watching him had kept the other locals off the suitboy's back.

  The man had noticed Kham's arrival and was trying to watch the orks without being obvious. The attempt was pathetically inept. The suit might be able to see them if his shades were set for light amplification or if he had enhanced eyes under those dark lenses, but his continual fussing said that he couldn't hear the orks.

  "Let's see what da man has got ta say fer himself." The guys trailed along with Kham, bouncing and hooting, in high spirits. They thought they were going to get work. Kham didn't want to let himself believe that just yet. It had been too long and disappointing a day. He walked right up to the suit and thrust out his chin.

  "Hear yer looking fer Kham."

  To his credit, the suit did not back away, although his nose wrinkled at Kham's smell. "Yes. Are you he?"

  "Are you he?" Ratstomper said in imitation of the man. "Fancy, fancy for Orktown, chummer."

  The others laughed at her remark, but the man held onto his calm. "Can you take me to him?"

  "Might," Kham replied.

  "There is remuneration in it for you."

  Fancy words. Upscale words. The suitboy needed to be reminded of where he was, so Kham asked, "Re-what?"

  "Money."

  "Dat I understand.' Rabo was nudging John Parker and grinning. "How much?"

  "That depends on how quickly you take me to him."

  "Dis is hot biz, den."

  "There is a time element."

  Turning, Kham backed up half a step, letting the man relax, then swung back. "Why Kham?"

  Startled, the man was silent for a moment before blustering, "I'll discuss that with him."

  Kham leaned into the man, eye to eye. His bulk was impressive and he let it have its usual effect on a norm. "Ya tell me, or Kham never hears." The gang snickered behind him. Kham was hoping the man would take it as a threat. "Well?"

  The man was breathing heavily, and, yes, he did smell nervous. "There is to be a trip. The persons taking it want protection. They are looking for discreet escorts who are able to handle themselves in case of trouble."

  "A muscle job."

  "As you say."

  "So ya come looking fer Kham. Maybe somebody else'll do?"

  "Highly questionable. It is reported that this Kham leads an efficient group experienced in such matters and able to respond on short notice. In any case, my principals specified his group."

  The gang broke out in guffaws.

  "Drek, Kham," Rabo burst out, "if we used them big words ourselves, we could charge more."

  "You're Kham?" the man stuttered.

  Kham gave him a toothy grin. "Whatsamatta, suit-boy? Didn't dey give ya a pic ta spot me?"

  "Of course, but I . . . I . . ."

  Dropping the grin, Kham snarled, "Yeah, right. Us orks all look alike. If ya ever bodder ta look. Let's get one ting straight, suitboy. We don't gotta like each odder ta do biz. And I don't like ya. Straight?"

  Nodding, the man said shakily, "I understand."

  "I doubt it," Kham said with a snort. "What's yer schedule?"

  "That you will have to discuss with, er, Mr. Johnson."

  Ratstomper piped up. "Johnson? Johnson? That name's familiar. Hey, John Parker, you ever hear of a Johnson
doing biz in Seattle?"

  "Johnson? Yeah I heard of him. He's the short, tall, fat, skinny guy, ain't he? A real Mr. Corp."

  "I tink ya may be right, John Parker." Kham poked the man with a horny-nailed finger. "Okay, suitboy, when do we meet yer Mr. J.?"

  "Ten o'clock at Club Penumbra. Back room three." Kham grabbed the man's shoulder and thrust him out into the street. "Ya said yer piece. Vacate." Catching himself before he fell, the man straightened up, stiff with repressed anger, or maybe fear. His eyes would have told the tale, but they were hidden by his dark glasses. He mumbled something, then set about straightening his clothes. By the time he'd arranged himself to his satisfaction, a black Ares City-master was rolling down the street toward him. It didn't have Lone Star markings, but that didn't mean it wasn't the cops. The twin machine guns in the turret said that; police-issue cars mounted water cannons.

  The armored riot vehicle stopped behind the suit. He gave the orks a last hard, unfriendly smile, then climbed in. Kham and the others didn't bother to watch the Citymaster roll away, but they stayed quiet until it was gone. John Parker was the first to speak.

  "Hey, Kham, Penumbra is Sally's territory."

  Kham shrugged. "Dis ain't Sally's kind of job."

  "You don't know dat," Ratstomper said.

  Kham cuffed her. "Lady Tsung ain't muscle. We're muscle. Dey's looking fer us. Dat means da Club's okay fer a meet. Even an elf-brain like you should be able to put dat tagedder."

  "So we taking it?" Rabo asked.

  "Maybe. Call Sheila and Cyg. And have the Weeze check the armory."

  Kham didn't know what the job was yet, but he knew he needed it. They all did; it had been too long since their last run. And they needed more than the money; they needed a boost in their rep and a new chance to show just how tough they were. A good run now would start the biz rolling in again. Then let the other runners in town look out. He'd show them all that he could run a gang as smooth as Lady Tsung herself. He might not have the ju-ju Sally brought to her team, but his guys had plenty of firepower, and he hadn't yet met a wage mage who didn't bleed when you shot him. Guns were still a good way to take out opposition magicians. A bleeding mage had a lot more on his mind than backing up the rest of the corporate goon squad with magic.