With his hands shaking uncontrollably, Victor Edwards tried desperately to close the last few clasps on his ill-fitting tactical vest. The vest, like the rest of his equipment, was a handme-down that once belonged to one of the four individuals crammed into the back of the little delivery van with him. At least they cared enough to give him some semblance of protection.
Only a few days ago Edwards was an insignificant executive with a no-name subsidiary of a giant megacorporation. But thanks to another group of men, not dissimilar from his companions in the van, Edwards had become nothing more than a discarded bit of refuse. He’d been played like a fiddle by a beautiful woman. And as that tale usually goes, he took the fall for her deception in the form of unauthorized use of his access card. No one ever mentioned the missing R&D files, only the breach in security thanks to his uncontrollable urges.
Despite a lifetime of faithful service to Aggregate Consumables, and in turn Ares Macrotechnology, the powers that be decided he was no longer of any value. And when you’re no longer valuable to the megacorporations you are simply discarded, erased, removed from existence, and left to fade away; or, if you can pull it off, to slip into the shadows.
Edwards wasn’t sure he was making a good choice, or even a choice. He was doing the only thing that seemed to have a chance of keeping him alive. Less than a day before, Edwards had been on the verge of using the only piece of gear he actually owned on himself. He had picked up the Ares Predator V for a steal when the company first started advertising them. He’d never had a desire to own a firearm before and had virtually no training on it, but there was something about that matte-black finish and wicked V that called to him.
But apparently it wasn’t his time to die. The universe decided that it was the right time for the four men he was now sharing a vehicle with to burst into his life.
He remembered the door flying inward, twisting on the one hinge that held against the augmented jackhammer that Turk called a leg. He didn’t know the big ork’s name at that moment, but he knew he’d made him angry somehow as the ork bellowed a single word—“Gun!”—and leveled his massive shotgun at Edwards’ terror-filled gaze. The massive barrel looked like a train tunnel.
In the back of his mind he spotted the lithe elf slipping past the ork but truly didn’t notice him until he had blocked the barrel. By then Quill’s hands were deftly removing the Predator from Edwards’ suddenly numb fingers. As the elf spun away, Edwards met the rest of the team. Tare, a velvety-voiced human who looked like he stepped right out of a trid flick, and Mo, another human, with a voice like gravel and a mohawk that looked like it was made of stone, were standing in the room next to Turk. The shotgun lowered, and Edwards’ new life began.
✖ ✖ ✖
Sitting in the dank little room on the upper floor of an abandoned library in Puyallup less than a day later, Edwards still hadn’t managed to get his bearings with the four men. He had no issue when they ordered him to go with them; it even seemed a little exciting. When Quill offered him a little something to help him sleep, he took it because the adrenaline and hard floor of Turk’s place had teamed up to make sleep impossible. When he woke up, head throbbing, Turk rushed him down to the van, which drove to the library much faster than his headache would have liked, and again he was prodded along.
The three present, Turk, Quill, and Mo, were arguing rather loudly about something called “blood magic,” which apparently was fueled by the life force of sacrifice victims. Edwards could tell they were talking for his benefit, making up one tale after another, each more outrageous than the one before. He felt embarrassed that these men chose such an obvious children’s bogeyman story in an attempt to frighten him. He knew they thought he was a complete corporate chump.
The trio went quiet when they heard someone approaching, and they were all seated around the remains of a conference table when Tare stepped in. He was dressed more casually than the others but still perfectly put together, and though the trio was obviously where they belonged when he came in, he still gave them all a disapproving stare.
“Hey Cobain, come join us,” Mo said to no one in particular. Victor was pretty sure he meant him, but they could have been talking to a spirit, some hidden companion, or virtually anything. He’d seen the shows about runners and the tricks they had up their sleeves.
“He’s talking to you, Vic,” Quill said while looking at Edwards. “I guess you’ve got a street name now. Beats me what it means. Maybe Mo will tell you someday.”
Edwards stood up and joined them but stayed quiet other than a quick thank you and polite excuse me when his stress-addled bowels unleashed a low force toxic cloud. Turk and Mo chuckled a little, while Tare and Quill said nothing. Tare then motioned to the empty seat at the table
“Now for the real business,” Tare said. “Mr. Johnson wants the R&D files and a face-to-face with Betty to discuss the ramifications of her excess of independence. Ed— err, Cobain—is our lure. I’ll make him look dandy. Quill, you move up to the rear balcony and get ready to slip in quietly.” Tare paused and gave Turk a quick narrow-eyed glare. Edwards guessed there was something he was missing, but within a few seconds Tare continued.
“Turk, you’ll need the ruthenium. I’ll put a shroud over you, but I’ll be sustaining a lot. Best be safe. You’ll be right on Cobain. When Betty buzzes him in, you need to be right behind him. Once you’re both in, my arcane assistance will fizzle. Wedge the door and I’ll be fifteen seconds behind.”
Edwards listened in growing confusion. He understood they’d given him a street name, pretty cool, though he didn’t understand it. He knew they were after R&D files and a person named Betty, and he knew he was somehow part of the plan; maybe even an important part. But none of that seemed to match up with being kidnapped.
“Quill, you watch Betty. If she makes us, give us the warning and keep eyes on her,” Tare wrapped it up with a look at each person in the room, saving Edwards for last and holding on him.
Edwards looked around at the others who were all looking at him. He really wanted to try and play it cool, pretend he had a clue, but he had a feeling he was sitting through some kind of test. The kind of test you don’t dare to guess on. After what seemed an infinite silence, Edwards finally asked, “Why am I here?”
Tare’s reply and a piece of electropaper with a picture on it that he slid across the table said it all, “Revenge, dear Victor. Does Betty look familiar?”
She did. And he understood.
✖ ✖ ✖
10 Years Later
Cobain stared out through the rain-speckled glass at the skyline of Boston. The soft hum and lilt of classical music played through the ship’s sound system. It was louder in the ballroom, but continued everywhere, a link between all the guests, no matter where they were, and a reminder of what they were here for. Well, what most of the guests were here for; Cobain was not on board the XS10SHL for dancing, and neither were at least two other guests on board the 110-meter luxury yacht. Despite his professional purpose on the boat, he couldn’t help but think of how beautiful the city was at night.
“A beautiful view,” a voice behind him spoke, putting words to Cobain’s thoughts. He saw Quill’s pale features reflected in the glass as the elf stepped closer.
“Aztechnology ruined it,” Cobain replied to Quill’s coded phrase, telling him everyone was in place with his own affirmative. The team was a go to acquire the package that Aztechnology had brought on board.
As jobs go, this one had been smooth. Not because there hadn’t been opposition or unforeseen hiccups, but because Cobain had planned it well. Turk’s protégé Gas Crank was doing well. He had a good combination of Turk’s brute-force militaristic style and his own touch of anarchistic finesse. Six clean runs with the team was not a full season, but enough to shatter the rookie’s false sense of what “running” really meant. Earlier he had cleanly dealt with a half-dozen gangers playing muscle on the docks and a pair of genuine mob toughs who wouldn’t let their greed override their pride. Now he was wearing a slick new suit with a very bright green kerchief sticking out of the pocket, and mingling with the other guests.
Quill had been his usual smooth and fast self. The decade since they’d met had not slowed him, though the cost of the upgrades he’d acquired always kept him looking for the next job. His quick fingers had lifted the half-dozen genuine paper invites they’d needed to get on board, and left behind copies with a few creative adjustments earlier in the week. The original invitees would be one hour behind and ten kilometers north, looking to sail out of Marblehead by the time they discovered the switch.
That little trick had cost the team some nuyen and Turk. He was willing to take a back seat and sit on the forger to make sure she didn’t decide to look for a better deal. It was probably a much-needed break. Cobain respected his longtime teammate, but thirty-six was old, on the back nine of an ork’s eighteen holes of life. A few days of much-needed R&R holed up at the Revere Beach MegaResort with a not-unattractive forger would be good for him.
After all of that, Cobain, Quill, and Gas Crank were left to do the actual steal. They should be enough. The team didn’t have anyone else right now anyway. Cobain had taken over for Tare almost five years ago when their former face got a break with Horizon and stepped from the shadows into the light. At the time, he’d felt a little twinge of jealousy, but since his own fall from the light, Cobain had only a few regrets. A woman he’d wished he was able to hold on to, a few runs he’d wished he’d done better legwork on, and a good friend he would have preferred was still breathing. But all told, his decade of running had been a far better life than his score of years under the thumb of the megacorporations. He looked at others still in that life with sadness.
That sadness was Mo’s influence on him. The neo-anarchist chided him for being one of the “sheeple” on a daily basis for months after they’d met, especially when Cobain asked about the origins of his street name. Mo never gave him a straight answer, but Cobain found out the truth after Mo had lost his fight with lung cancer two months ago. At the man’s remembrance, Mo’s sister pulled out an old compact disc player from the end of the last century. She slipped in one of those old flat discs and told everyone that this had been Mo’s favorite music. She talked briefly about the band, Nirvana, and the start of their countercultural revolution that was crushed by the rising power of the megacorporations. When Cobain introduced himself to Mo’s sister to ask about the band and the songs, she stopped him cold and asked him his street name. When he told her Mo gave it to him she hugged Cobain tight and told him how much Mo must have loved him to have given him such an honor. When she explained that Cobain was the last name of the lead singer, who had killed himself when Nirvana’s music had been bowdlerized and popularized, he understood.
Mo would have loved their current job. It was right up his alley. The target was a silver case, currently attached to the wrist of a very burly Aztlaner in the company of Juan Gualara, Director of International Infrastructure Analysis Programs for Aztechnology. The case holder was a member of his security detail, who also happened to be a former member of the Leopard Guard with Aztechnology Corporate Security. Gualara had been invited to the yacht in order to get ACS’s man in place to make a quiet deal with a member of TerraFirst! concerning the contents of the case. All information Mr. Johnson had left out at the initial meet, but Cobain had made sure was dug up, because working blind was no way to run.
When Quill silently slipped away, a shadow fading from the glass, Cobain turned his attention away from the lights of the Boston skyline. He calmly slipped the mother-ofpearl buttons back through the nearly invisible buttonhole slots in his Armanté suit coat, his movements smooth and confident. With the coat open, he pulled the concealed Fichetti pistol from its custom-fit holster and dropped it into the narrow vent below the window that kept them from icing over or fogging up. The pistol was no longer part of the plan for him; best be rid of it.
He made a few more cosmetic alterations to his dress, loosening his bowtie and twisting it askew, untucking the left side of his shirt, and running his fingers through the side of his hair to disrupt the gelled perfection. The illusion he was creating needed only one final touch.
Drawing a small flask from his inner pocket, Cobain opened it and poured the contents into his mouth. His entire body shuddered when the rotgut synthwhiskey hit his tongue. He gave the liquid a good swish around his mouth before spraying the foul substance in a fine mist into the air before him. He briskly stepped through the spray, spinning to cover as much of himself as he could before slipping into character and stumbling toward the outer deck.
Feigning drunk, he staggered through a course that gave him a chance to spot all six of the people he needed eyes on. Juan, the Azzie exec, was inside seated at a table visible through the rear deck glass. Burly Azzie with the case was walking away from the table and headed toward the rear deck. TerraFirst! was standing near the fore, seemingly engaged in a pleasant conversation with Gas Crank. Lastly, Quill was leaning over the railing above, looking out into the night. Everyone was where they needed to be.
Cobain set the plan in motion by staggering along down the side of the boat. With one hand on the rail and the other holding his glass, he stumbled and sloshed champagne, worth more per ounce than gold, all over the deck and his clothes. He intentionally lost his grip on the rail as Burly Azzie stepped out onto the rear deck and toppled into the bulky Aztlaner.
“What the … watch it,” the Azzie blurted.
“Oh, my god, I am so sorry,” Cobain slurred while clumsily groping at the Azzie and splashing champagne down the man’s sleeve.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Burly Azzie said. He pulled Cobain back.
Cobain moved back with the pull. He’d managed to do what he needed to, and now needed to give the big guy a little space.
“Enough or not, my glass is empty again. Excuse me,” Cobain slurred and stumbled toward the server.
Burly Azzie grunted something in Neo-Nahuatl but did just as expected, heading around the corner and along the walkway at the side of the ship, moving toward TerraFirst!.
Cobain gave him a small lead before turning back and doing his best stagger-walk straight at the big ruddy-skinned Azzie. He started his verbal tirade a good ten meters out to give the Azzie time to turn. When he got close he bellowed out, “Who are you to tell me when I’ve had enough?!” and gave Burly a shove. It wasn’t much, but it got the desired response: a return shove.
Cobain flailed and stumbled back toward the rail. Burly Azzie had some boosted reflexes that made him quick enough to step forward and grab Cobain, catching him before he went overboard. The only problem was Cobain had a nicer system, along with some enhanced muscle fibers, and no desire to be caught. Instead he wanted the Azzie’s momentum. He used it to hurl the man overboard as he fell to the ground. As far as anyone watching was concerned it looked like an accident.
Above, Quill yelled, “Man overboard!” and leaped from the upper deck towards the water. His flailing impact ensured he didn’t sink too deep. He was able to almost immediately adjust his direction to head toward the Azzie.
