Jordan K. Weisman - Into the Shadows

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Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Books USA Inc.. 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wnghts Lane. London W8 5TZ, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood. Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd. 10 Alcorn Avenue.

Toronto, Ontario. Canada M4V 3B2

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Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices.-

Harmondswortn. Middlesex, England

First published by Roc, an imprini of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Books USA inc.

First Printing, October. 1992

10 987654321

Series Editor: Donna Ippolito

Cover: Keith Birdsong

Interior Illustrations: Mark Nelson

Jim Nelson

Jeff Laubenstein

Elizabeth Danforth

Tom Baxa

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SHADOWRUN. FASA. and the distinctive SHADOWRUN and FASA logos,

are trademarks of the FASA Corporation, 1026 W Van Buren. Chicago, 111

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for this "stripped book "

CONTENTS

Prologue 1

A Plague of Demons, by Tom Dowd 3

Graverobbers, by Elizabeth T. Danforth 27

Tallchaser, by Paul R. Hume 45

Striper, by Nyx Smith 75

Whitechapel Rose, by Lorelei Shannon 111

Turtle In the Tower, by Ken St. Andre 133

free Fall, by Tom Dowd 155

Would tt Help to Say I'm Sorry?

by Michael A. Stackpole 185

It's All Done with Mirrors,

by Michael A. Stackpole 211

Glossary of Slang: 2050 277

Contributors 283

Timeline 285

PROLOGUE

It is a gliniing, glistening, flashing, studded, neon, chrome,

mirror, rhinestone, circo conglomeration of humanity.

—Anonymous

The year is 2050. Advances in technology are astonishing,

with humans able to meld with computers and travel through

that netherworld of data known as the Matrix. Not only that,

but cybernetic enhancements able to penetrate the skin allow

man to behave in ways that are more than human.

As predicted by the ancient Mayan calendars, magic has

returned to the world, with elves, dragons, dwarfs, orks, and

trolls assuming their true forms. Magicians and shamans

wield the ancient power in the modem world, while the

nations of the world are mere figureheads compared to the

giant megacorporations whose power cannot be constrained

by mere borders.

Moving through it all like whispers in the night are the

shadowrunners. No one admits their existence. They show

up in no corporate or governmental database- They have no

SINs, System Identification Numbers; in effect, they were

never born. No one admits their existence, but no one else

can do their secret work. When a corp or other individual or

group needs some dirty work done, they hire shadowrunners.

A runner's life can be a short but lucrative career.

Into the Shadows is set in the fast streets and angry shad-

ows of Seattle, now an urban sprawl encompassing some

1,600 square miles, from Everett to Tacoma. Yet even this

vast megaplex is but an enclave set amid larger states ruled

by Native American nations and other sovereign states of

metahumans and Awakened Beings.

CREDIT: JEFF LAUBENSTEIN

A PLAGUE OF DEMONS

by Tom Dowd

He stepped into the street, wincing at the cold rain coming

down in sheets. The sun, cursed twelve long days ago after a

particularly dark night of shotguns and a bellyful of Absolut

ringers, was still something only promised in long-range

weathercasts and simsense posters. He pulled his coat tighter,

warming himself against the rain, which drummed against

him like nervous fingers. For a moment he thought about

getting something to cover his head, then decided against

going back upstairs. It was too late for hats.

He caught me electric bus heading south on Kingland and

rode it to the tum-around at the Steuben Plaza Mall. The

Knight Errant complex was only a few blocks away through

the puddles. Halfway, he paused to watch a Lone Star chop-

per play its halogens over the broken wall of an elven tene-

ment a few blocks down. The mist caught the glow and flashes

of emergency lights. Another night in the sprawl.

He stopped within sight of his destination and thought again

about what he was doing. It was a step back, away from

where he'd been. A step away from his life as he'd made it.

He sighed; trash was best thrown out and forgotten.

He pulled sunglasses from one pocket and slipped them on

against the glare of the lobby's overdose of flourescents. It

helped, and gave him an excuse to run his hand quickly over

his hair to flatten it. He smiled; the thug look was back.

The two guards in the lobby didn't appreciate his fashion

sense. He hadn't taken more than two steps past the door

when they'd set themselves. The first stood behind the recep-

4 Tom Dowd

tion desk—and four centimeters of carbatloy plating, if he

remembered it right. The second had begun to walk casually

toward one of the tables in the reception area, as though he

were merely going to browse through some of the hardzines

dropped there. The guards had given him two separated tar-

gets and eliminated their crossfire. Slick, he thought.

"Welcome to Knight Errant Security," said the one at the

desk. "Can 1 help you, sir?" The man's duty uniform was

spotless, perfectly cut and bearing a single silver star under

the insignia patch. Alt of it brought back memories hard as

the driving rain. Very carefully, and after nodding once to

each of the men, he pulled the clipcase from the upper pocket

of his coat and nipped it open toward the sensor over the

desk. "Thanks," he said. "I know my way."

The guard nodded once as the computer whispered the

identification from the card into his ear. His eyes widened

slightly and he nodded to his partner. The guard stepped from

behind the desk, picking up the eye scanner as he moved.

"I'm sorry, but new regulations require we revalidate your

retina file. If you could just look into the scanner."

He took the device the man handed him. "Sure, and

double-check me in the process. Not a problem.** He lifted

his sunglasses and looked into the scanner. "Hey, dirty pic-

tures."

The guard nodded and smiled as the computer ran, cross-

checked, and verified the retina pattern. "You're clear

through, Mr. Cross," he said, taking the scanner back. "Have

a good evening."

"Thanks. By the way, who's got the hot seat tonight?"

"Rachel Morelle, sir."

Cross winced, nodded once, and a few steps later had dis-

appeared into the depths of the building. The guard stared

after him as the scanner reset itself for its next use. "Son of

a bitch," he said.

"What?" The second guard had come up behind him.

"That was Brandon Cross."

"Thought so," his partner said, casually glancing at the

row of monitors on the desk. "I'm surprised his ID'S still

valid."

"I'm not. He had good reasons. The company respected

them."

"Look, everybody has good reasons," said the second

A PLAGUE OF DEMONS 5

guard, "but that doesn't mean they should fraggin' just let

him walk away."

The color of her hair, a deep coppery red, was the same

as he remembered, though her face seemed a little sharper,

more delicate. Her eyes, however, were alien to him. Gone

was the gentle amusement, something new in its place.

Something had changed.

Her grin collapsed. "You what?" she said, leaning for-

ward.

Cross sighed; it was the reaction he'd expected. "I said I

need work." At least she hadn't laughed.

"You want to come back to the company?" She laid her

hands flat on the desk. "Just like that?"

Cross shook his head. "No, that's not what I said. I need

work, but not for the company. Freelance."

Morelle closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She'd

barely touched the leather when her eyes snapped open. "OK,

I give. What's the punchline."

"No punchline. No Joke. All I need is a cast-off. You know

that Detroit would never approve me back on the payroll."

"No, I don't know that, but you're probably right," she

said, playing absently with the light-stylus in her hand. "You

certainly don't have many friends there anymore."

"You're right." Cross stood and walked slowly toward the

window. It was a direct trip; the office was bare except for

the desk and two chairs. "That's why I'm asking you as a

friend, Rache."

"You need money?"

"No." The street was clear, except for the puddles and the

crazy dance of the rain hitting them.

"Then what?"

He looked around. "Where's all the stuff you used to have

in your old cube? You know, the books, the figurines, your

California prep school photos? I'd have figured you'd bring

them all with you."

She shrugged. "I've still got them. Didn't see any reason

to clutter the place. New office and such."

"Oh."

"What do you want. Brand?"

"I need work."

She sighed. "You've done shadow work. We know alt about

6 Tom Dowd

it." She managed a slight smile. "You're never far from our

thoughts, you know." On the street a lone cycle, its rider's

long white hair whipping in the rain, sprayed water as it

passed.

"I need something a little cleaner." Cross reached out and

tapped one finger silently against the glass. "This is new,"

he said. "At least an eight-degree refraction, vibration damp-

ening, and I bet it could stop a twelve-millimeter slug."

"Fourteen," she said, leaning forward again. "Look. why

don't you just do a tour with Desert Wars or something. It's

the desert, but it's clean."

Cross shook his head. "That much sky gives me hives."

"You've got friends on the street. What about them? That

bunch you work with?"

"No."

"So this is about the Steuban extraction." Her face seemed

to tighten as she spoke, the light-stylus in her hand tapping

out a slow beat against the leather arm of the chair.

"I guess I can assume it's common knowledge. On the

street the only thing that travels faster than news of failure is

the bullet with your name on it."

"How'poetic—and unlike you. She knew the risks. Bran-

don- Kristin Worthly was a professional shadowrunner. It's a

cliche, but it comes with the territory."

Cross turned. "Worthly."

The pen stopped. "Lynx, I suppose," she said, shrugging.

"Worthly was her birth name."

"Really? I never knew that." Cross turned back toward

the view of the street. "I also didn't realize Knight Errant

was keeping such a tight watch on me."

"What about Eve Donovan? She's a friend of yours. Fixer

extraordinaire, if I remember the file right."

"I'm sure you do. I haven't heard back from her. You have

been keeping a tight eye on me."

She looked away. "I'm sorry, I can't help you. You know

I can't open the files for you."

Cross nodded and tapped the glass again. "I know, Rachel.

I know." He turned to leave but stopped just before passing

through the door. He spoke without turning. "So why did you

accept the promotion? When we were together you always said

you could never sit still long enough to work a desk."

"People change."

He nodded and left.

A PLAGUE OF DEMONS

They stood and watched as the lights from the Lone Star

light air vehicle passing overhead filled the shadows with

pools of shifting crimson and violet. The LAV'S siren was

silent, but the throb of its vector-thrust engines reverberated

audibly through the misty night.

"Effective, is it not?" said Diamond, as the vehicle dis-

appeared in the distance.

"Yepper," said Cross. "Those v-thrust engines make an

LAV damn expensive, but they can lift more armor and more

weapons than any chopper. The bigger ones can even pack a

light response team if necessary."

Diamond smiled and looked down at his friend. "I was

referring to its psychological impact. What would I know

about cerasheet armor and target-tracking radar?"

"Not much, I expect. Unless ole Coyote's got an active

subscription to Soldier of Fortune.

"He keeps many things active, Brandon. He is not one who

forgets, either."

Cross looked skyward and blinked as the mist filled his

eyes. "Should I steel myself for some of your usual totem-

induced statements of foreboding? Or are you going to deal

it straight for a change?"

The black man laughed. "Cynicism does not suit you, my

friend. Perhaps sarcasm would serve you better."

Cross closed his eyes. "I was being sarcastic."

"Sarcasm is a function of language, Brandon. Cynicism is

a way of life."

Cross ignored the latter statement. "I suppose Eve sent you

with something for me?"

Diamond's eyebrows raised. "No, she did not. I wasn't

aware that you had spoken with her recently."

"Yeah, the other day. I've been looking for work."

"Ah! That would explain much."

"Here we go ... ." said Cross.

"I've heard your names mentioned on the winds—"

"Eat less Mexican."

"Brandon ..."

"Sorry," he said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his

long coat.

"I've seen the wheel of change associated with you, and

the veil of deception and the mask of the false image. I fear

8 Tom Dowd

you are again to be the tool of destruction, but not the hand

of death."

"Again."

Diamond nodded slowly. "Yes, again."

"I almost died in there. I don't want to go through that

again."

"I understand, my friend." Diamond reached out and

clasped his hand hard on Cross's shoulder. "You must always

remember that they are abominations, devoid of any trace of

humanity, regardless of what form they take."

Cross stepped back and turned away, moving a short dis-

tance off from Diamond. "So it's got to be me again, eh?

When you need a job done, call on the man with experi-

ence."

"This is the path and the sword of fire, Brandon Cross. As

you cleanse, so shall you be cleansed."

Cross looked once over his shoulder as he walked away.

"What makes you think I need cleansing?" he said quietly,

but he had already left Diamond far behind.

Later, Cross couldn't sleep. The heat was up too high in

his apartment, but he knew that if he complained now he

would freeze tomorrow. Through the open window he heard

the soft tread of steps on the fire escape. An Ares Predator

heavy-pistol, swathed in the darkness and folds of his bed

sheets, warmed to his touch.

The giri was young, maybe half his age. Maybe. The only

thing light about her was the paleness of her face, the gleam

of her teeth, and the bright sparkle in her eyes. Everything

else was black: her long coat, shoes, shirt, gloves, and hair.

Dyed black, except for seemingly random splatters of deep

red all over her. She was one of the King's Crimson street

gang. He wasn't all that surprised; sometimes they seemed

to be Eve's personal army.

He released the gun and stood up. "Eve Donovan sent

you?''

The girl stared.

"Great. What've you got?"

Reaching inside her coat, she pulled out a black optical

chip, which she nipped toward him. It was labeled in a wom-

an's hand with one simple word, "Cross."

"Thanks. Anything else I need?" He hadn't expected a

A PLAGUE OF DEMONS 9

reaction, but the girl slowly raised her arm and pointed past

him. He turned. Hanging on the wail behind him was an

autographed holosheet for Tara Hardcastie's last simsense

production, Blind Faith. He turned back toward the girl

slowly.

"You tell Diamond 1 hope he bums in hell."

» » > DATAMAIL™ « « <

SOURCE; NA/DNV;BMR (FJ)

DESTINATION: UCAS/SEA/3206 (82-0071/CROSSB)

"BEGIN"

Brandon:

Here's the info you wanted:

Ellen TyIer-Rand

Born 14 March 2023, Sacramento, California Free State

Parents

Barbara (Capuano) Tyier [mother] b. 2002

Warren Tyier [father] b. 1995 d. 2043

Married Aacon Rand, March 2048 (b. 2023 d. 2050)

Background:

Designated heir of father, Warren Tyier, president and

primary stockholder (62.4%) of Western Biosystems, the

Redmond hydroponics concern. Maintains ownership and

title of Western Biosystems, but (eaves control of corpo-

ration to younger brother Mitchell Tyier, CEO. Reputedly

some bad blood with mother regarding inheritance.

Husband, Aaron Rand, local Seattle playboy and he-

donist, died early last year following a binge at Pulse, the

exclusive simsense club. You might remember the event

from the datafaxes. Allegedly he was a regular and had

the psychotherapy bills to prove it. Shadowtalk has it that

someone slipped him a snuff-BTL. He didn't die happy.

She's apparently been something of a recluse since

then. None of the keyword or image searches I ran turned

up more than a few references to the standard charitable

donations (don't worry, no Brotherhood). Nothing much

else.

If you want me to dig deeper, let me know. I realty didn't

find anything more than what Evie gave you on the disk

(telt her I said hi), but I might if I ring some bells a little

louder.

Tom Dowd

Oh, my sources estimate net worth at about 2.3 million

nuyen ... So, she's got yots a yen.

Adios, amigo. Let me know when you're going to be in

town, and I'll do vice versa, though technically I'm always

in town. (Smile, dummy, it's a joke , . . )

FastJack

•*END*'

The condoplex smelled of recently poured plasticrete and

the money that put it there. Cross stepped carefully to one

side, avoiding the paint sprayer as a pair of workers walked

by carrying a large strip of black steel molding. The foyer,

where he stood was large, but not much was visible because

of the protective sheets and drop cloths hung throughout.

What he could see, glimpses of marble and silver, looked

like the area might have been remodeled within the last few

months.

"You understand my concern, of course, don't you, Mr.

Cross?" she said, adjusting one of the plastic sheets to better

cover the table beneath it.

"Of course, Mrs. Tyier. Paint sprayers can be messy."

Surprised, she turned toward him. "What? I was referring

to my daughter.''

"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you mind if we moved to another

room? The smell of adhesives is getting to me."

She nodded. "Of course. That's why I moved into the Ritz

during the renovation." She led him into a large sky-lit den.

One wall was all glass, giving a view of the Sound. The

opposite wall was all mirrors. He'd guessed which was which.

"Mrs. Tyier, your daughter is well beyond the age of con-

sent; she is her own woman." He walked slowly around the

room as he spoke, while Mrs. Tyier took a seat near the

window.

"I am very much aware of that," she said, "but I don't

believe she is in full control of her faculties. Her husband's

death was quite a blow to her, you understand."

"I can imagine. They were close then?"

She shifted slightly in the chair. "Why yes, of course. What

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