Carl Sargent & Marc Gascoigne - Shadowrun - Nosferatu

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Shadowrun Nosferatu
Shadowrun Nosferatu Carl Sargent and Marc Gascoign
1
Why the frag is Knight Errant swarming all over the place? Serrin wondered,
rubbing his sleepy eyes and squinting into the June sunlight. Uniformed
security
had sprouted up on the grass around the campus library like mold on a rotting
peach. Not breaking stride, the elf headed straight for the group blocking
his
path to the building's entrance.
"I'm sorry, sir," the security goon said indifferently. "No one is admitted
to
this area today."
"I've got all my passes," Serrin offered, halfway toward reaching into a
jacket pocket for his plastic. His hand froze in mid-air as one look on the
goons' faces told him not to put his hand anywhere near any of his pockets.
"I'm
sorry, sir," the man repeated in a bored tone of voice. "Block C is closed
today. Haven't you heard?" "Haven't I heard what?" the elf said irritably.
"The
Beloff Research Laboratory is being inaugurated at two o'clock this
afternoon.
By Andrew T. Small in person." The man's voice betrayed just the merest hint
of
contempt at mention of New York's mayor.
"Great," Serrin muttered, turning on his heel. He wandered off to the
nearest
canteen, bought a garishly headlined Times from the vending machine, and sat
down to read it over a cup of soykaf and a Danish. No one read a cheap
tabloid
like this for news in 2055, but even its wild sensationalism couldn't
distract
the elf from his irritation. The grimoires he needed to consult were under
the
most highly restricted access, and this was the only place in the world that
had
them. The most he'd been able to get was permission for a week's access to
the
magical collection
here at Columbia, and now he was going to lose a whole day of it.
His gray eyes meandered over the top of the newspaper to the girl who'd
parked
herself down across from him. She had the fresh-faced look of the typical
university student, but Serrin wondered about the brief flash of something
hard
in the brown eyes gazing at him from beneath her dark curls. Her datajack was
silvered and her nails were polished to match, but the metallic lip gloss was
a
little too flash for his liking. Yet he could also see that on her it looked
good.
"You a mage?" she asked abruptly. He nodded. "One of the parapsych profs?"
He smiled and shook his head. "No, just doing some research." He reached
into
a pocket for his cigarettes, offered her one.
"You can't smoke in here," she said, with a little laugh. "We social
outcasts
have to take it outside." She picked up her cup and headed for the door.
Stealing a brief look at her long, smooth legs, Serrin got up and went
limping
after her.
"What're you working on?" she asked as he sat down beside her on the grass.
She'd already lit up, the smoke from her menthol cigarette rising lazily into
the already warm morning air.
"Um, magical defense," he said, adding his own plume of smoke to the humid,
heavy air. Her eyes narrowed a little and he regretted having given himself
away
so readily. Not that anyone couldn't have figured out what he was after
simply
by scoping out the grimoires he'd been consulting in the library.
"Against who?" she asked, leaning back on one arm as she watched his face.
Serrin shrugged. "No one … Or at least not that I know of. Let's just say
I'm
a little bit paranoid."
"Then New York's just the place for you. But you're not a native, are you?"
She cocked her head and studied him for a moment. "I'd say your accent is
West
Coast, somewhere north maybe? Seattle?"
Smart girl, he thought, enjoying himself thoroughly. Despite the heat, it
was
a beautiful summer morning and
she was almost as lovely. The mage barely noticed the passage of time as
she
gradually drew him out like a fisherman reeling in a difficult catch. The
security goons twitched from time to time, perhaps wondering why the elf and
the
young woman lingered so long doing nothing while the sun rose high in the sky
toward noon and then beyond.
The mayor's official cortege arrived on schedule, even a bit early at five
minutes to two. By then, the stars of Columbia's parapsychology department
had
begun to assemble in front of the new research building on a dais festooned
with
ribbons of red and silver. The stairs leading up to the new building gleamed
as
if they'd been scrubbed twenty times during the night.
Serrin and the girl wandered across toward the gathering, which apparently
hadn't attracted much of a crowd. Despite the fact that the mayor of the city
was making an appearance, the Rotten Apple's media snoops obviously had more
exciting stories to cover.
"What's he doing here?" Serrin wondered aloud. "I mean, the mayor can't be
too
worried about the parapsychology vote."
She grinned. "I've heard that some of the money to construct these new
buildings came from foreign sources—including one that's megatight with a
vote
he does need."
That caught Serrin's interest, and he was just about to ask what she meant
when Mayor Small, surrounded by a phalanx of grim-faced bodyguards, emerged
from
the safety of his Phaeton and advanced toward the applauding academics.
Long afterward, the mage still could not pinpoint what had alerted him. It
wasn't his spell lock to detect enemies, which wouldn't have homed in on an
assassin whose target was somebody else. Nor was help from any other magic,
for
Serrin had no spells going. Trying to run spells in the middle of a place
crawling with Knight Errants wouldn't have gotten him more than an abrupt but
efficient escort straight off the campus.
No, the way it happened was like a smooth tracking shot in slo-mo. The
hazy-edged tan whirl of an Arab face,
a gleam of metal, a masked aura, and a rush of adrenaline. The Knight
Errant
goons must have caught Serrin just as he was casting his spell for a magical
barrier, because all at once several of them were pointing their Predators
straight at him. It was at that moment other magical energies swam into focus
along with his own.
The bullet never did hit Mayor Andrew T. Small, but deflected away as
Serrin's
spell defeated its course, sending it shattering into a high window of the
new
research building. The sound of breaking glass came slowly, as if from a long
way off. Small hit the ground while three of his bodyguards piled on top of
him
like three linebackers sacking a rookie quarterback. The goons staring at
Serrin
seemed unable to focus, confusion written all over their faces. The Knight
Errant mage who'd stopped them from filling the elf with lead barked an
order,
and they slowly let their raised weapons fall.
Serrin watched the terrifying, unstoppable line of their aim drop from his
own
body, then, in a sudden burst, everything resumed normal speed in a great
rush
and roar of noise. The lone gunman had been overpowered by street samurai
among
the crowd. A squad of Knight Errant's finest leapt for him, eager to save
what
little face they could.
Serrin was first bundled to the ground, then hauled to his feet again and
forced into a tinted-window limo. A coat was clumsily flung over his head as
the
car sped away. The elf huddled in his seat, barely breathing, barely moving.
All
he could do was hope and pray that his reflexes hadn't gone and got him into
deep and serious drek.
"I apologize for any rough treatment, Mr. Shamandar," the man in the sharp
suit told Serrin. "It's just that we were trying to optimize your debriefing.
You'll appreciate the need for a full security-implication assessment of
events."
Yeah, sure, Serrin thought Wearily. 1 stop the mayor of New York from
getting
smoked and all I get for my trouble is eighteen hours of nonstop
interrogation.
I don't
even know where I am. He crossed his arms and gave the nameless suit his
best
"Well, what now?" look.
"I am authorized to make you a discretionary payment on behalf of the
mayoral
office as a reward for your public-spirited actions," the suit said as he
produced a credstick with the imprint of City Hall. As the man handed it over
to
Serrin, he gave the elf one of his oiliest smiles.
Serrin was slightly mollified. Just how much more mollified he was prepared
to
get depended on the size of the reward. And, well, ten thousand nuyen ought
to
buy a fair to middling degree of mollification.
"We do not believe there's any risk to you of reprisal," the suit continued
after Serrin had examined the stick. "The department is confident that we're
dealing with a lone assassin."
Serrin almost laughed. With all the powerful magic that had obviously been
masking the gunman, he'd been acting alone about as much as had William
Springer, the man who'd assassinated President Garrety and never been caught.
But that was apparently what the mayor's office—and Knight Errant—wanted him
to
believe, so he pretended to buy it.
"I'm just glad to have been of help," Serrin said blandly. Pocketing the
credstick, he turned to leave the blindingly lit, windowless interrogation
room.
Flanking him now on either side were two Knight Errant trolls, each one
holding
one of his arms as they marched him to the limo parked in front of the
security
installation. Beside it, a dark-haired girl was arguing with a few more
Knight
Errants who were about to manhandle her off the premises. It was the same
girl
he'd met the day before, sun gleaming off the silver jacks in her temples
even
at this hour of the morning. Jerking his arms free of his burly escorts, the
elf
rushed forward to intervene.
"Hey, it's chill!" he said as one of the Errants poked her in the ribs with
a
nasty-looking Predator. "I mean, we were just leaving anyway."
"Let's go," she said simply and opened the door of her Jackrabbit.
Something
told him just to get in and let himself be driven away. Her smaller car
simply
looked more human, more inviting, than the corporate limo. It was only later
that Serrin realized how little a night without sleep had done for his
instincts.
"The vidcasts didn't get your face," she said when they were settled into
her
apartment somewhere in suburban New Jersey. "I think you got lucky, Serrin
Shamandar. I doubt the Damascus League got enough of an ID to come after
you—even if they wanted to, which isn't my guess they don't."
"Damascus League?" What in slot did they have to do with this?
"That's the word on the street. Maybe Small's been getting too chummy with
the
Jewish vote lately. Standard hazard for a mayor of New York."
Serrin tried to remember what had happened in those split seconds in front
of
the beribboned dais. Through the blur of images, he realized he'd forgotten
something else.
"Look, I'm really sorry," he said sheepishly. "I can't even remember your
name. They didn't let me sleep and I guess my brain's temporarily on hold,"
he
apologized.
"Julia. Julia Richards," she smiled, seeming not at all offended.
"Uh, why did you come to pick me up? I mean, what's it to you?"
"You're very welcome," she said tartly, then turned and flounced away into
the
little cubbyhole of a kitchen, from which the pungent aroma of coffee soon
announced that it wasn't soy, but the real thing. Still feeling churlish,
Serrin
got up to follow, grimacing at the familiar pain stabbing all the way down
his
damaged leg. Turning, she saw the look and her irritation changed immediately
to
concern.
"Forgive me," he said. "My manners seem to have gotten as rusty as my brain.
I
appreciate your turning up. But you can't blame me for wondering why."
She filled two cups and set them a tray, which he gallantly took from her.
Accompanying the coffee were bagels, and Serrin thought the smoked salmon and
cream cheese slathered over them might be as real as the coffee.
"Well, it's not that often that I get to meet the man who saves the mayor
of
New York from being assassinated," she said teasingly. "If that didn't make
me
interested in you, I don't know what would. I also wondered what kind of
person
could see something Knight Errant couldn't. I figured you must be a real wiz
mage. Someone special." Her tongue flicked across her perfect lips. "That
good
enough for you?"
Serrin couldn't reply for a large mouthful of chewy bagel. Swallowing it
with
a hefty gulp he managed to mumble something about not being special at all.
"Maybe … maybe not," she said lightly. "Where are you staying?"
"The Grand Hudson," he told her. Julia's eyes widened a little at the
mention
of such an expensive hotel.
"Why not lay low here for a few days? Just in case. Going back to Columbia
might not be a good idea just now. I could get what you need from the
library.
I've got all the necessary passes and I know some of the librarians."
Sensation ran down his spine, part-thrill, part-fearful distrust.
Everything
had been happening so fast, so out of the blue. He was too exhausted to stop
and
think. Julia Richards was young and pretty and he was probably safer here in
the
wilds of suburbia than back in Manhattan. Anyway, what did he have to lose?
Not
much, he knew. Doing things because there wasn't much to lose had been
Serrin's
modus vivendi for some time now. It made decisions so much easier. True, he
was
a shadowrunner, with the same well-honed instincts for danger and survival as
any other of his kind. But even a veteran runner and elven mage could make
mistakes when suffering the effects of extreme fatigue.
"Uh, you sure?" She nodded; no pressure. "Well, uh, that would be great,"
Serrin said. Then quickly added,
"I've only got a few more days in New York." He was trying to let her know
he
wouldn't become a burden, but also wanted to make sure she understood he
didn't
stay anywhere too long. He tried his best to stifle a yawn, and failed
wretchedly.
"What you need now is some rest," Julia said, giving him another of those
smiles. "The spare room's that way and to your left," she told him.
Serrin bid her good night, even though it was only ten o'clock in the
morning,
then made his way toward the back bedroom, limping even more than usual. The
little room was dark and deliciously cool, furnished simply with a bed, a
bedstand, and a chair. Not even bothering to remove his clothes or his boots,
Serrin sank gratefully onto the bed, punching the pillow up under his head
just
the way he liked it. He fell asleep almost instantly, and didn't wake until
five
that afternoon—and only then because Julia shook him gently awake to the
sight
of more freshly brewed coffee on the bedside table. He was halfway through
his
first cup when she slipped into the bed beside him. Real coffee or not, the
other half-cup was instantly forgotten.
Serrin stayed for three days. By day Julia was away from the apartment,
returning later with the books he wanted, having somehow won permission to
take
them out overnight. At night they drove back into town, wandering mostly
around
the East Riverside neighborhood, where she took him to the Metropolitan Opera
and to restaurants where they dined well and expensively. She always paid her
half of the tab, a fact that should have made Serrin wonder, but didn't.
Meanwhile they talked as endlessly as on that" first day in the morning sun
outside the library. In the course of their conversations Julia confided that
she dabbled in writing and was an aspiring actress. From what she described,
he
made her as one of those eternal hopefuls hanging round the fringes of the
arts,
doomed to disappointment like most of the rest.
The only thing that seemed other than wholly harmless about Julia Richards
was
her collection of books on the
occult. Possessions, hauntings, apparitions, all the standard themes plus a
good few more. She'd taken some courses in parapsych, and showed him the
working
version of a ghost tale she was writing. Surprised to find it so readable and
well done, Serrin thought the girl had an old-fashioned knack for creating
scenes with the disturbing hint of unseen, unknown, unknowable presences
lurking
just on the edge of the reader's perception.
"This interest in ghosts … You intending to hunt them professionally?" he
asked, more jesting than serious.
"Oh, just an old hobby," she said, waving her hand to show how minor was
its
importance, and left it at that.
But from that time on Serrin felt that everything changed. It wasn't
anything
in particular that was different. There were no scenes, no major
misunderstandings,, just a shift in mood, in tone. Even when they made love,
he
knew her heart wasn't in it. Though he tried to paper over the subtle rift
between them with friendly conversation, the mage grew uneasy.
"I think I'd better be heading back home," he said at last, thinking of the
Chinese proverb that both guests and fish stink after three days. If he left
tonight, he'd avoid that fourth day. "It looks like I'm done with my
research,
which I couldn't have finished without your help. I won't forget it." He was
scrupulously trying not to get too personal.
"Yes, well, it's been fun having you here," Julia replied, sounding as if
she
genuinely meant it. Serrin was confused, unsure of what deeper emotions might
be
roiling beneath the surface. He kept the rest of his goodbye short, trying
hard
to avoid her eyes.
She offered him a ride to the airport, but he declined. A lift to the
library,
however, he did accept, because he still needed to follow up on one or two
final
points before returning to Seattle.
"Thanks again," he said, climbing out of the car on a street near the
library.
"And don't forget. You've got my number. If you ever need anything, don't
hesitate. Call any time."
Julia looked away for the merest split-second and he wondered what on earth
he
had done wrong now. "Sorry,"
was all she said, before jerking the car out of neutral and pulling off. He
shook his head, picked up his carrying case, and headed toward the library.
Two hours later he was just finished copying out some of the material he'd
come for when he heard the announcement for closing time. After hurriedly
checking the flight schedules on one of the library computers, he decided on
the
midnight shuttle, which would give him time for a decent dinner somewhere
downtown. He didn't feel like pressing his luck in Chinatown, so he chose a
Thai
place off Times Square. Hell, he thought with amusement, maybe I could tap
the
shoulder of one of those Knight Errant slags who hang around down there and
get
him to pick up the tab.
Within five minutes of sitting down at his table in Little Home Thai,
Serrin
suddenly felt like everyone in the place was watching him. Glancing around
furtively, he saw two men in suits appear in the doorway, press a wad into
the
head waiter's hand, and stride across to his table. He almost panicked, but
forced himself to reason that these couldn't possibly be a couple of avenging
assassins. You don't get iced for preventing someone from being killed, he
told
himself. Or do you? At least these two didn't look like Arabs …
"Mr. Shamandar," one of them said with a heavy dose of fake sincerity as he
sat down uninvited at the table. "I'm Dan McEwan of the Times and this is my
cameraman, Randy Simmons." Simmons, grinning like an embarrassed hyena with
an
outdated mustache, nodded a greeting and hefted a camera from around his
neck.
"We'd really like to take some pictures for a feature on you while I just ask
a
few questions. We'll try not to interrupt your meal at all."
Serrin was about to growl, "Frag off," then realized he wanted more in the
way
of explanation. "What's this about anyway?"
"Why, your act of heroism, of course," McEwan said, almost leaving a
visible
trail of slime on the carpet. "The whole city is still buzzing with it, even
after three days. You know, the mystery mage with the haunted eyes?"
The vidcasts didn 't get your face, Julia's voice said at
the back of his mind. In panic he shielded his face with a red napkin and
ran
for the door. Haunted eyes, my ass, he thought.
"Just get me out of here!" he snarled to the troll driver as he leapt into
the
back of a yellow cab two minutes later. By now, it seemed like at least a
dozen
photographers and media reptiles had appeared on the scene. He tried hard not
to
think about how foolish he must look with the sweaty, ragged remnants of a
paper
napkin pasted onto various parts of his face. "JFK. Take some detours. Don't
worry about the meter."
"I love people who say that kinda stuff, chummer," the troll grinned, then
shot off like a devil rat chipped up on
BTL.
There didn't seem to be anyone waiting for Serrin at the airport when they
arrived, but he guessed that somewhere there had to be a hungry stringer
roaming
around looking for him, just in case. A quick check of the flight board told
him
there wouldn't be another domestic flight going out for another thirty-five
minutes. And nothing to Seattle for two hours.
摘要：

ShadowrunNosferatuShadowrunNosferatuCarlSargentandMarcGascoign1WhythefragisKnightErrantswarmingallovertheplace?Serrinwondered,rubbinghissleepyeyesandsquintingintotheJunesunlight.Uniformedsecurityhadsprouteduponthegrassaroundthecampuslibrarylikemoldonarottingpeach.Notbreakingstride,theelfheadedstraig...

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