"FRIENDSHIP AND HONOR"
by
STEVEN WARNOCK
The big Indian stepped off the suborbital and into an alien world. Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Heathrow Airport of London, England, was very different from what Walker was used to. He had flown out of Denver where old squaws hawked handmade blankets next to young bucks selling the latest chips and drugs. Here, he saw none of that.
Walker made his way out of the terminal and whistled up a black cab. The cabbie blathered about the weather and local politics in a nearly unintelligible Cockney brogue. At the end of the ride Walker was only too happy to drop several pounds in the cabbie's lap and leave. The hack had delivered him to a railway station.
The station's coffee shop provided a nice place to sit and drink soycaf while waiting for the train. He was eyeballed by a group of leather-clad orks. A foreigner in a tailored suit carrying a real leather suitcase and a laptop computer was the usual prime candidate for a gang mugging, but this chap seemed rather hard around the mouth. Walker slid off his Whitelaw sunglasses to reveal his solid white cybereyes and smiled. The orks moved on. Walker made a show of cleaning his glasses before returning them to his face.
The train ride to Wales was a pleasant one given the British rail system's poor rep for schedules and maintenance. At the station Walker saw an ork who was shorter and stockier than his metatype tended to be dressed in a grey chaffer's uniform. The ork held a sign written in the new phonetic alphabet adopted in most of the Native American Nations. It held his Cheyenne name.
A genuine smile cracked his stoic countenance.
"Hoi, chummer, I'm the main you're waitin' for."
The ork almost dropped his sign in the rush to take Walker's bag.
"My name's Charlie, but you can call me ‘Stubbs' ‘cause ever'body ‘cept Master Ambrose calls me ‘Stubbs.' He calls me ‘Charles.' I like that, it so formable. How long ya stayin'? Ya like it here? I sure do," Charlie blabbered as he carried the bag to a waiting Rolls-Royce.
He was a cheerful blabberer as he put the bag away and opened the door for Walker. He discoursed on subjects as varied as the weather to why butterflies aren't really made of butter to what he got for Christmas.
At the manor a middle-aged man with red hair and beard waited as the Rolls stopped in front of him. He almost got to the door before Walker opened it for himself. He was grinning with most of his face.
"Marc, how the heck are you?"
The red-haired man shrugged. "Could be worse. I could still be living in Seattle."
Charlie had stopped behind Walker with his bag.
"Charles, take that to the guest suite, the blue one, and tell Cook there'll be two for dinner and we want burgers and chips."
"Blue room, two for dinner, and burgers and chips. Got it, Master Ambrose." Charlie scurried off.
"Nice kid. What's his damage, though?" Walker asked.
"Born with Down Syndrome and goblinized at thirteen. I found him in an Atlanta slum living in a dumpster."
"And I thought I had a problem with picking up strays."
"Come, my friend, let me show you my house."
An hour of antiques and old rooms later Marcus Ambrose escorted his friend into an informal dining room. On the table sat plates with hamburgers, french fries, and all the condiments necessary for a perfect burger.
"I remembered you were a big eater," Marc chuckled.
"You must want a favor from me while I'm here. So, what can this legitimate businessman do for you?"
Marc sat down and motioned Walker to the other chair. For his part the big Indian set about preparing a double-decker-chili-cheeseburger-no onions.
"How can you eat that?" Marc asked stunned.
"My tongue and nose are about all that's left of me. I enjoy treating them," Walker replied just before he inhaled the sandwich.
"That was disgusting. You can take the boy from the sprawl..."
"But you can't take the sprawl from the boy."
Walker munched on fries while Marc stared at his plate.
"You're stallin'," Walker stated.
"I have a friend, a lady, in trouble. I need the help of a friend, somebody I know I can trust, to help get her out of trouble."
"You love her?"
"Yes."
"Come hell, high water, or the Second Coming we'll help your lady. This is my word of honor."
Ambrose's lady friend was Ariana Casey, owner and chief operating officer of her own software design firm. She was a slim woman with long, dark hair, fine features, and bright green eyes. Bright and sparkling to Ambrose's quiet fortitude, they made the perfect couple to Walker's way of thinking.
The two men met Casey at a small pub in the village. Walker noticed the locals noticing him. The citizens nodded to Ambrose and spoke a few words of Welsh to him. Since it was early evening most of the patrons had just gotten off work. He made note of some farm hands swilling stout like soda. Then, he chided himself. Old habits died hard. Looking for trouble only invited it.
Casey was explaining her situation, "My troubles started a month ago when I took a programming contract with ZetaImpChem. I installed new security monitoring algorithms and some custom IC for them. Then, my lab was broken into. All my files were pillaged. So, I went back and completely rebuilt the system I'd made for ZetaImpChem. Now, I'm being harassed by thugs, got white collar crooks trying to buy me out, and I'm almost certain that ‘free' fire elemental attacking me was not accident."
"Two options," Walker said holding up two fingers. "One: just pack up and go. There's a little place in Richmond where you'd be comfortable staying."
"I don't think so," Casey responded.
"Two: let me track the scum down and tell ‘em to hoop it on outa Dodge."
"What if they don't ‘hoop it on outa Dodge?'"
"Then, Marc and me hit ‘em where it hurts, hard and often. So much so you'll never be bothered again."
A meaty hand landed on Walker's shoulder.
"Whazalldis, here?" demanded a ruddy farm hand.
"Business meeting. Buzz, chummer," Walker growled.
"No, ya bleedin' septic. I wanna buy the lady a pint," the farmhand sputtered.
In the space of a couple of seconds the farm hand lost his footing, smashed his chin on the edge of the table, and crumpled to the floor unconscious.
"Him fall down. Go boom," Walker chuckled.
"Oi! That's me mate ya sucker-punched, sep," snarled a less drunk farm hand.
Walker smiled at Ambrose. "Nice pub. Good booze and free entertainment."
"Don't break anything important," Ambrose advised.
The farm hand slammed first one, then the other, fist into Walker's stomach. The big Indian grinned as the man thudded against him.
"Bet you wish I was the proverbial wet paper bag," Walker said in a conversational manner.
The farm hand grunted something in Welsh.
"He called you a bleedin' pansy," Marc supplied.
"He's delusional," Walker commented.
He rapped the farm had on the head. The ruddy man dropped on top of his friend. Walker dragged them both over to their friends and bought a round for the group.
"We'd better leave. Walker's going to drink them under the table," Ambrose suggested.
"He'll need help getting home, won't he?"
"No, he's got ‘attachments' to keep him sober."
"What if things go violent again?"
"Walker is a human Swiss Army knife. Besides, he's working the room. In the morning he'll know this town better than we do."
Big George liked his job. He got paid good coin to smash stuff and scare breeders, his two favorite pastimes. The troll felt important being boss, especially over breeders. Today they were to "engage in the Casey business," as the Johnson put it. Big George rode his hog right up into the breeder woman's yard. He revved the engine to make sure he was heard.
His crew circled the cozy cottage running over flower beds and tearing up the sod. They hooted and hollered. A couple even pulled out small caliber handguns to take shots at chickens and a stray dog.
In pairs the bikers would stiffen and fall off their bikes. At last, Big George realized that he was alone. He wondered what had happened to everybody. Then, he saw the two breeders putting little black airguns away under long coats. They jandered right up to him seeming to ignore the fact he was a big, scary troll. That upset him.
"Hello, you must be Big George," said the dark haired one.
"So what if I am? Ya just bought a whole lot o' trouble, yank," Big George replied.
He drew out his mace from a saddle sheath on his bike. He began to swing the mace at the dark haired breeder, but the man stepped inside his swing. With one clean motion the human flipped the troll off of his bike and onto his back. A booted foot landed on Big George's throat.
"So if you're Big George you can tell us who hired you to annoy Miss Casey."
"Go frag yerself!"
The human twisted his foot cutting Big George's air supply.
"Wrong answer, butthead. Talk or my mage buddy here rips your psyche out your ear."
Big George reconsidered. "I don't know his name. He's just some breeder suit. Calls in the mornin' ta give me instructions."
"Got a contact number?"
"Yeah, in me left pocket. Bidness card."
Walker smiled. "Get outta town when you wake up."
He double-kicked the troll in the jaw. Than, he searched Big George's pockets to produce a business card.
"I suppose you're going to call that number," Ambrose said.
"Do you really think I'm that crazy as to just call some comm number I pulled outta some ganger's pocket?"
"You've done it before."
"Hmm, you're right. Got a phone on you?"
Ambrose rolled his eyes heavenward. "Don't you think we should check it first?"
"Yes, that's why I want the phone. To call a decker I know."
"Hey, when did you get so smart?"
"I learned it from you."
"Thank you very much."
"Oh, you're quite welcome. Shall we depart before breaking our arms patting ourselves on the back?"
"My goodness, yes. Let's do that."
As they started off Walker draped an arm over Ambrose's shoulders. "So? How does the local black market feel about heavy ordnance?"
Walker's decker contact lived in Denver, but he knew people in England and Scotland. The one in York came with a high recommendation. On top of that the cocky elven lad had a reasonable rate. Walker borrowed Charlie and the Rolls to make contact with the decker.
The meet was set for a location in one of London's poorer ethnic quarters. Walker felt half naked with only a borrowed Narcoject Lethe for protection. The cops in Great Britain frowned upon the loyal subjects of His Majesty packing heat much less visiting foreigners doing the same. A nonlethal dart gun would cause fewer headaches in the long run.
"Charlie, stay with the car. Don't talk to anyone. Don't let anyone in but me. Got it?"
"Uh-huh." Charlie nodded his head with great vigor.
"Good. Just drive around the block ‘til I call you."
The bar was called Node 1. A classic decker hangout, the decor of Node 1 was dayglo colors combined with computer generated abstract art works. Half the patrons had datajacks and cyberdecks. The other half seemed to be either decker groupies or potential employers like himself. The elf waited for him at the bar. Walker was certain green was not the lad's natural hair color, but it jived with his decker handle, the Green Knight.
"Shall we take a booth, good sir?" The elf inquired.
Walker nodded.
The Green Knight chose a booth in the far back of the bar. He laid his deck on the table and slid a connection into the phone jack.
"Are you familiar with the Siberspace Club in Seattle?" Knight asked.
Walker nodded.
"We've a similar set-up here at Node 1."
Walker laid his laptop next to Knight's deck. From a concealed compartment he produced a cable that he inserted in the phone jack as well.
"I see you're prepared, good sir. Sally on."
With that the Green Knight jacked in.
In cyberspace the Green Knight's icon was a stylized version of his own appearance. He wore neon green Crusader's armor with a red lion crest on his tabard. A helmet, battle-axe, and lion crested shield, all in green, rested nearby.
Knight looked around for Mr. Johnson. His virtual location of a medieval tavern held only himself. Johnson was taking his time jacking in. Then, a new icon flickered into existence. Knight expected a standard chromed corporate salary man icon. What he didn't expect was a red Indian
warrior with some kind of animal skin head-dress, a bow in one hand and a big knife in the other.
"I want an LTG number traced all the way down the line. I will pay you two thousand nuyen. The money is in a Swiss account. I get the paydata; you get the account code. Is this acceptable?"
"Quite, good sir. Release your data, please."
The Indian flipped the knife and handed it to the Green Knight butt first.
"I tied the data packet to this. I apologize for the sloppy workmanship, but I'm not very good at programming yet."
Knight's jaw dropped. "This is a code breaker made by Toonmeister."
"Get my paydata now, you can keep it."
"Back in a flash, good sir."
The Green Knight grabbed his gear and ran out the door.
Walker jacked out and ordered a beer. When the beer was done he jacked back in. The tavern room was still empty. While he was admiring the imagery the Green Knight returned.
"I'm keeping the ice cutter, term. Saved my life. I earned it."
Knight tossed Walker a green clover.
"Your LTG number hits several back switches and blind drops, but eventually it ends at the address I gave you. Bad news for you, though. I got a glimpse of the number owner. It's a rather ruthless shadowrunner called Ravage. Runs a crew called the Wild Bunch. They're bad news, term."
"Good job, sir knight. The account code is ‘Gawain.'"
Walker jacked out. He saw the elf smiling. At least the kid got the reference.
Ambrose, Walker, and Casey had dinner together that evening. Over the main course Walker began to tell the story of the information he had collected.
"First, I checked the address the decker dug up. Nada. Just an office with an answering machine and a coffee machine. Then, I started asking around about Ravage and the Wild bunch."
"And?" Casey asked.
"Ravage is a shadowrunner, alright, but he's the property of a firm called Harker Chemcorp. They use him for assassinations, extractions, and data theft. The Wild Bunch is his support team.
"The muscle is provided by a street samurai called Knee-Capper. He's a dwarf with a thing for breaking legs and shooting people in the knee. He's backed up by a human merc called Wolfman. He's the demolitions and heavy weapons expert.
"On the brainier side of things is their decker, Miss Priss. Apparently, she's so perfectionistic that she had herself cosmetically altered to match her icon persona, a Lady Godiva lookalike.
"Then, Ravage covers himself magically with a hermetic druid called Thane. The rest oh the Wild Bunch changes from time to time, but ravage and Thane always remain the same."
"What about Ravage?" Ambrose asked.
"Well, one guy said he's a street sam. Another swears he's a shaman while his buddy's positive he's a mage. Ravage builds a mystery around himself with a new cover story every week. I figure he's mundane, a physical adept at most."
"What does he want with me?" Casey demanded.
"That's simple," Ambrose replied. "Your access to ZetaImpChem. Knocking over your little business is easier for him than raiding ZetaImpChem head-on. He gets the code keys from you. Then, his decker walks in like she belongs there."
Casey sighed. "So what do I do now that I know shadowrunners want me?"
"Walker smiled. "Fight fire with fire."
"I can't afford shadowrunners."
"We can," Ambrose chimed in with a smile.
"No, I've imposed on your graciousness enough. I can't ask you to deal with scum to fight more scum."
"Do you think I'm scum?" Walker asked.
"Of course not! You're a terribly nice man."
"But I'm a shadowrunner, or used to be."
"So was I," Ambrose added.
"Marc, I had no idea..."
"Most folks don't," Walker said. "Some runners are lucky like us and retire in style. Others just take a bullet to the brain, and a few sell out for long, prosperous careers as professional lap dogs."
"I suppose you used code names like ‘Wizard' and ‘the Red Warrior'?" Casey asked with a small grin.
"Uh, no, Marc was Ambrosius, and I was Dog Boy, through no fault of my own, I might add."
Ambrose laughed. "People called you that because of that dog skin head-dress and that monster hound that followed us everywhere."
"Can you handle this Wild Bunch by yourselves?" Casey asked.
Walker grinned. "Do dragons have bad breath?"
Walker called the number on Big George's card. He got the answering machine. A flat, mechanical voice told him to talk after the beep. It beeped.
"Pick up the phone, Ravage, you silly motherfragger."
It beeped again and the connection was cut. Walker punched the redial. Once again the automated voice told him to wait for the beep. It beeped.
"Either pick up the phone or you'll be picking coffee machine fragments from off your ceiling."
Once again the machine beeped and cut him off. Walker redialed.
"You were warned."
He hung up before the second beep. He pressed the little red button on the little black box in his left hand. A shaped charge explosive propelled the coffee maker into the office ceiling.
The next day Walker called again. The answering machine picked up and began its routine.
At the beep Walker said, "Ravage, you silly fragged, pick up the phone. You really don't want to see what I do next."
The phone clicked to a live voice.
"Who is this?" demanded a deep male voice.
"Call me an angel with the word of the Lord, Ravage. Leave Ariana Casey alone or the wrath of God shall fall upon thee like unto a plague of old."
"You listen to me joker..."
"The angels have spoken," Walker interrupted and hung up.
"Think you got him angry enough to do something stupid?" Ambrose asked.
"I dunno. I was pretty obnoxious.'
The two men looked across the street to the front door of the office building that Ravage was using for his phone drop. The door burst open under the force of a kick by a human in a business suit. Ravage. He was followed by a dwarf in streetwear and a tall, pale human. The pale man carried a cane with a crystal headpiece. Arcane symbols were sewn into the lapels of his suit coat. Thane.
A three inch tall eyeball with little arms and legs appeared in astral space a foot from Ambrose's nose. He pointed at Ravage.
"See that man?"
The eye nodded.
"Follow him. When he stops at the place strongest with his aura, come fetch me or this man. Then, lead us there. Go."
The eye sparked and disappeared on its mission. An hour later the watcher returned. The path it took them on twisted around half of London and twice past Trafalger Square. Finally, it stopped in front of a row of townhouses looking down on the Thames. The watcher pointed one out.
"Thank you," Marc said. "You are free."
The watcher flashed and popped out of existence.
"Wait here, old boy. I'm checking the place out. Guard my body," Marc said before slumping down in his seat.
His astral presence drifted away from his body until he stood next to himself outside the car. He perceived Walker behind the steering wheel as a body criss crossed with extensive patches of darkness. The only brightness in his aura came from his heart and mind.
Ambrose strode across the street, through a wall and into the house. A human and a dwarf sat on a couch staring at the trid. A less enhanced human reclined near the telecom. What appeared to the mage to be a slender serpent kissing her temple was a data cord running to the phone jack. Ambrose had accounted for the Wild Bunch, but where was Ravage and Thane?
At the speed of thought he went through every room in the house until he butted heads with a ward. Since this was just a recon mission he chose not to break Thane's ward. Ambrose could guess this was Ravage's sanctum. Knowing he could do no more Ambrose returned to his body.
"The Wild Bunch is in residence," Ambrose said.
"How ‘bout Ravage?"
"There's a warded room I think he and Thane are in."
"While you were ‘out' I called my decker. I'm having him check the matrix."
"Better warn him Priss is decking. I saw her lost in her own head."
Walker picked up the phone and dialed the Green Knight to warn him. He talked for a couple of minutes before hanging up.
"Knight's just leaving. His instructions are to intercept and eavesdrop all outbound communications."
They waited in silence for several minutes.
Walker asked, "It just me or would trashing that place feel real good right about now?"
"It's just you... For now."
When the car phone buzzed they both jumped a centimeter. Walker snatched up the receiver with a growled command to talk. He listened for a couple of minutes. Then, he hung up.
"Knight's got something for us. He wants to meet at Node 1."
The elf's green hair was plastered to his skull from sweat. An empty shot glass sat in front of him, and he was draining a beer as Walker and Ambrose sat across from him. The elf waved to the bartender, pointed at the empties, and motioned for a refill. He didn't speak until the bartender had disappeared with the empty glasses.
With a shot of whiskey under his belt, he said, "You're gonna love this, good sir. Miss Priss has been overseeing a bid to do a stock buy-out of Casey Enterprises. It's a wee programming firm in Wales. Guess who's frontin' the yen? Yank company called Harker chemcorp, but that ain't the hottest data, terms. My phone tap got Ravage reporting to his Johnson that he's eliminating Miss Casey's opposition to the buy-out."
"You got that on chip?" Ambrose asked leaning forward.
The Green Knight patted his deck.
"Oh, yes, good sir, for a reasonable price."
Walker jacked his laptop into the phone connection. He tapped some keys.
"Access the Gawain account, sir knight. Fealty is its own reward."
Knight's eyes widened just a little. He popped a memory chip from its slot on the back of the deck and placed it in Ambrose's hand.
"Struth, good sir, that fealty is rewarded. I am ever at your disposal. You will excuse me while I pay my outrageous bar tab."
"Were we ever that cocky?" Ambrose mused.
"Yes," Walker replied. "We've got to go. Ariana's in danger."
Ravage's attack came at midnight against Ambrose's manor house. The first wave consisted of Knee-Capper and Wolfman. The burly merc fired a grenade into the front door vaporizing the ancient timber. Knee-Capper rolled through the door coming up in a combat crouch, his Uzi stuttering into an empty room. An AK-98 preceded Wolfman through the door.
Knee-Capper stood up when the first arrow pierced his left knee. Another arrow pierced his right knee. Ambrose's invisibility spell faded revealing himself and Walker. The mage wore a worn duster and clutched a golden-yellow dagger in one hand. The big Indian was similarly garbed, but the top half of his face was painted black and bottom red. A dog skin and head rested on his head and shoulders.
Wolfman swung his grenade launcher toward this new threat squeezing the trigger as he went. Ambrose's fire elemental was faster sweeping Wolfman from the room and cooking off his ammo and explosives as he went. The life of the merc ended in a short, violent boom on Ambrose's front lawn.
"Knees hurtin', Capper?" Walker asked.
The dwarf snarled a curse and swung his Uzi in line with Walker, but The Indian had moved. A stream of lead tore up the wallpaper. A single arrow pierced Knee-Capper's neck.
"Oh, Ravage, you silly fragger, you're next," Walker yodeled.
"Quit taunting him! He'll nuke my house," Ambrose scolded.
The two ex-shadowrunners dashed out into the night. From somewhere on a hill above them a machine gun raked their path of flight. Then, they were under cover. Walker took his time to look back up the hill, his optics zooming in on Ravage, Thane, and Miss Priss.
"They're next to the cupid fountain," he reported.
Ambrose ducked from behind cover. He screamed an incantation in Old Gaelic. A blinding flash of light and heat erupted next to the fountain covering the three attackers. Miss Priss's fancy face lift now resembled an overcooked kabob.
However, Thane had succeeded in protecting himself and Ravage from the effects of the hell blast. He unleased a bolt of energy. The energy dissipated as it hit a barrier surrounding Ambrose.
Still incanting in Gaelic Ambrose indicated a stone the size of a loaf bread in the walk. It levitated up and hurled at Thane. The pale man ducked just under the stone and out of the way. His counter spell sent pebble and dirt swirling toward Ambrose. The mage somersaulted past the dust devil.
Walker took advantage of the mage duel to scurry around the flank. As he approached his targets from the rear he saw Ravage drawing a bead on Ambrose with a handgun. Walker jammed an arrow into the frame of the gun from four meters. Ravage whirled.
"Naughty, naughty, silly fragger," Walker said with a feral grin.
"Who the frag are you?" Ravage spat.
"The dogs of war."
Walker yanked the big combat knife from his boot.
"Shall we dance, pale face?"
Ravage double-cocked his wrists releasing cyberspurs.
"Call the tune, red man."
Nearby, Ambrose's dodges and attacks had brought him right up to Thane. With a flick of the wrist Ambrose's orichalcum dagger cut the head off of Thane's cane. Ambrose then clamped his right hand down Thane's throat. All the fight fled Thane's being. A final incantation fired a power bolt through Thane's head. The pale mage dropped dead.
Ravage didn't notice the death of his friend. The big Indian kept him fully occupied. Every slash, stab, and feint was countered by a flashy combination from the Indian. Each scratch and cut inflicted by the red man angered Ravage to greater levels of fur.
"This dance is over," Ravage snarled.
He attacked with blind aggression forcing the Indian to give ground. Ravage was rewarded by a long, bloody cut across the Indian's stomach. He laughed. The laugh died short as he realized his mistake. The Indian had allowed himself to be wounded. Ravage felt the big arm wrap around him in a bear hug. Walker snapped Ravage's arm at the elbow. He spun Ravage to face him. Their eyes met.
"I am Dog Boy, warrior of the Cheyenne. I am your death."
Walker swung his blade and severed Ravage's head.
The police came to remove the bodies at first light. They wanted to arrest Walker and Ambrose until a Welsh official, a friend of Marc's, showed up in person to send them scurrying on. Several copies of the recording Ravage's phone call were sent to Harker Chemcorp board members. A lone copy somehow found itself on the Shadowland Hub. Ariana Casey was covered eight ways to Sunday.
Walker spent a week in Wales before returning to Denver. He flew home knowing friendship and honor had been satisfied.