Dead Air Read online

  JACKED-IN, REVVED-LIP, AND ARMED TO THE TEETH

  It's fast and furious inside the Combat Biker maze, where armor-plated hogs and juiced-up rice grinders blast, pound, and pummel each other for points. But it's just barely up to speed for Jonathon and Tamara, two elven bikers at the head of the Los Angeles Sabers. With a simsense link between them that allows them to act virtually as one, they've been tearing up the league and making headlines.

  But all that changes when Tamara takes a brutal hit from the cyberspurs of Dougan Rose, lead linebiker for the New Orleans Buzzsaws and the most respected player in the league. When Tamara gets slammed, Jonathon's out for revenge. But it isn't going to be easy. Because there's a lot more to this sabotage than meets the eye—and if the megacorp agents, simsense industry operatives, and hostile mages don't kill him, the truth probably will....

  DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

  Jonathon kicked himself up into a wheelie, slowing to about 45 kph. He leaned forward to keep his balance and stay focused on the closing distance between himself and the trio of oncoming lances.

  When the distance closed to less than three meters, Jonathon braked hard and threw his weight forward, pitching himself onto his front wheel. And just as his rear wheel came up, he activated the hydrojack built into the front fork. He sprang up into the air, tucking into a forward flip. The stadium blurred past above and below him as he spun, and he heard shots over the collective gasp of the crowd. When his natural balance and gymnastic training told him it was time to come out of the tuck, he arched his back, laying out the final rotation to land again. Two wheels, no wobble.

  Then it was time to elude the goalie.

  The Buzzsaws’ goalkeeper was a massive troll named Big Ed. Armored like a tank with huge polycarb plates. Armed with an autoshot riot carbine and twenty stun rounds, plus a tetsubo—a huge Japanese quarter-staff covered with densiplast bosses. Wicked nasty.

  But Jonathon was faster. Quicker. And hopefully smarter . . .

  SHADOWRUN : 22

  DEAD AIR

  Jak Koke

  MAPS

  Prologue

  First simtime. First day of release.

  You are there.

  It is the summer of 2057, and you’ve been waiting ever since they started showing previews on the trid—cuts of the catastrophic motorcycle wreck, the giant ball of flame erupting in the center of a crowded stadium. The adverts’ staccato images and the tense voice-over hinted that this sim is based on the true story of Jonathon Winger and his deadly rivalry with fellow combat biker, Dougan Rose. That makes it all the more enticing; everyone wants to know what really happened in the days before Jonathon Winger died.

  The harsh afternoon heat dissipates in a wash of cooled air as the line advances and you step inside the theater. The sweat on the nape of your neck grows cold, sending chills down your back. Glass doors close behind you, their mirrored surface blocking out the heat and the sun. The odor of burning asphalt and the choking scent of diesel exhaust lingers in the air for an instant before the theater’s odor dampeners absorb them.

  The real world is harsh, and you’re glad to escape it for a moment. It is an Awakened world where powerful magic coexists with rapidly advancing cybertechnology. Where elves and dwarfs, orks and trolls share the streets with humans. Where megacorporations are more powerful than governments, and the global computer Matrix is the conduit through which all information is passed.

  Today's simsense will take you away from a world where dragons can run for president, and creatures even more powerful can assassinate those dragons. Where reality is more shocking than fantasy has ever been. The sim will make you forget about the insanity of 2057, help you escape from the day-to-day grind. If only briefly.

  A uniformed teenage girl with platinum blonde hair offers you the choice of an electrode rig or a datacard for straight jack. You slot your credstick into her scanner and grab a datacord. ’Trode rigs are for wimps. You can hardly believe anyone ever uses them.

  The simsense in this theater is first release, primo urge, unlike anything you can get at home or on chip. It is Dir-X, a direct recording, untainted by the signal loss that comes with compression and decompression. Using a 'trode rig would dull the experience, like walking through life in a thick rubber suit. No, straight jack is the only way to fly.

  You enter the theater and the world of noise and distraction gives way to the lush black carpeting of the aisle. The walls and the ceiling inside the room are lined with black, sound-dampening foam, and hidden subwoofers rumble with infrasonic white noise to prevent random vibrations from interfering with the sim. The last smells from outside disappear inside the chamber; there are to be no external distractions during the sim.

  The chairs are self-adjusting recliners, all facing the same direction, but there is no stage. The chair fits you snugly as you relax into its comforting grasp. One end of the datacord clicks into the control panel by your right hand; the other end snaps into the silicon datajack in your temple.

  Whatever remains of the real world dissipates as the sim begins and the sensedeck’s RAS overrides kick in to dampen your own senses and muscle responses. The chair cradling you is gone, replaced by a wash of color and pulse of urge. The room fades, and the others around you vanish.

  The opening music rises into your awareness as you stand in the body of a young elven boy in the throes of adolescence. Thin and tall with bones poking against skin. Heat blasts your face and your bare arms as you watch red and orange flames engulf an old wooden house. Wind rushes past to feed the fire, and you smell the black smoke of burning upholstery and bubbling plastic.

  Through the melted remnants of the front window, you see a grandfather clock, its once polished hardwood blackened, its ornate face twisted from the heat. Across the room from the destroyed clock is a bassinet, and for the briefest of moments you think you hear the soft cry of a baby amid the banshee scream of the fire. Then it’s gone, and only the crisp anguish of loss remains.

  Adrenaline makes your heart pound in your chest. Firefighters rush to pump water over the blaze, but it is a futile gesture. The great roar of the fire seems to laugh at them as the water spray sizzles and vaporizes. Sadness wells inside you, bringing you close to tears. The house is too far gone to be saved. Too far gone. Such a waste.

  A thin hand touches yours, and abruptly you realize that a crowd of people stands with you, everyone watching the fire. Gathered for the spectacle. You grasp the hand in yours and turn to see an elven girl of your age. The sadness wanes and a surge of affection rises in you. She is your best friend, your constant companion. You are happy she is here.

  Her long hair is raven black, pulled back behind her sharply pointed ears. Her skin is the deep russet of an Amerind, and smudged with dirt. Her eyes are a dull copper color. Beautiful. She stands slightly shorter than you, but she is more fully developed. Rounded in places. She continues to stare at the fire.

  You look back into the flames, their ravenous tongues licking black death into the wood around the doorway, the windows, cutting sharp grooves through the walls. The orange and red defocus as you stare, growing glassy and reflective. For a second you see yourself in the reflection.

  You are tall even for an elf, but haven’t put on the muscle to match your height. Your hair is a shaggy mane of auburn, straight as straw, unkempt and dusty. Your features are classic; prominent cheekbones, proud straight nose; up-tilted hazel eyes flecked with blue. The line of your mouth turns down at the corners.

  The reflection of your face grows larger and larger until you can see nothing else. The sound of the fire fades slowly, replaced by the rising swell of orchestra music. Your face loses its color, becoming ghostly transparent, and the flickering orange of the defocused fire provides a backdrop for the opening credits. Th
e words DEAD AIR appear and a simultaneous pulse of adrenaline rockets through you.

  Time to fly.

  Dramatis Personae

  JONATHON WINGER, elf, regarded as one of the best professional linebikers in the entire World Combat Cycling League. He rides for the Los Angeles Sabers’ combat biker squad and is the long-time close friend of teammate Tamara Ny.

  DOUGAN ROSE, elf, the only professional linebiker who is rated better than Jonathon Winger. He rides for the New Orleans Buzzsaws and has been in the game for over ten years.

  TAMARA NY, elf, teammate and close friend of Jonathon Winger. She loves Grids Desmond, a freelance simsense guru, but has been sleeping with high-placed Saeder-Krupp executive, Andreas Michaelson.

  SYNTHIA STONE, human, hermetic mage and Jonathon Winger’s girlfriend.

  GRIDS DESMOND, human, simsense guru and boyfriend of Tamara Ny.

  VENICE JONES, troll, Jonathon Winger’s bodyguard.

  MARIA NIGHTFEATHER, human, Owl shaman, exlover of Dougan Rose. She used to run with La Muerte, a Los Angeles gang and shadowrunning team that has long since broken up.

  ANDREAS MICHAELSON, human, senior executive vice-president at Saeder-Krupp, plans to defect to Mitsuhama Computer Technologies. He is having an affair with Tamara Ny.

  LUC TASHIKA, human, executive vice-president at Mitsuhama Computer Technologies in charge of the entertainment division. He has contacted the fixer known as Cinnamon to arrange the extraction of Andreas Michaelson from Saeder-Krupp.

  CINNAMON, free spirit, fixer hired to extract Andreas Michaelson.

  HENDRIX, human, leader of a team of shadowrunners who are hired by Cinnamon. His team includes Layla, Juju Pete, and Mole.

  ACT ONE

  -

  HIS FIRST DEATH

  1

  Jonathon Winger stifled a yawn where he sat in the boardroom on the twenty-seventh floor of the Angelic Entertainment arcology in downtown L.A. Seated all around him in high-back synthleather chairs were men in gray or blue suits and muted ties, complete with discreet data-jacks and pocket computers.

  Most of their faces were familiar to Jonathon by now. Execs and VIPs of Angelic Entertainment, which owned the Los Angeles Sabers, the combat biker team Jonathan rode for. There were also some promotion people from Saeder-Krupp, but Jonathon and Tamara were the only actual linebikers present. Everyone knew Angelic Entertainment was merely a shell company for the mighty Saeder-Krupp Corporation, which could technically not do business in California Free State. Too magical or too metahuman—or maybe both—for the folks up in Sacramento.

  Coach Kalish was there too, and though she was a great coach as far as Jonathon was concerned, she was an aging dwarf and not the most trid-ogenic. The promoters were obviously not interested in using her in any special adverts.

  Jonathon, however, they were most pleased to have riding for them. He was large for an elf, bulked up by augmented muscle and a regimented workout to almost ork size, but with clean-line good looks. Superstar charisma, according to the promoters.

  Whether they were right or not, Jonathon’s mane of auburn hair, intelligent hazel eyes, and ten-thousand-nuyen smile had helped, along with his skill in the arena, to land him an unprecedented number of endorsement contracts for one so new to combat cycling. He certainly loved the publicity.

  And that’s what this meeting was all about—publicity. The promoters and producers and ad people wanted to hype up the relationship between him and Tamara. Wanted to imply something going on between them. Something intimate.

  Sex.

  They could use that to sell millions of simsense chips and motorcycles and articles of clothing and whatever else they wanted to put Jonathon’s name on. But it bothered him that it was a lie.

  He and Tamara had never been lovers even though their relationship was deeper, closer than anything he’d ever imagined possible with another being. And sex had never been part of it.

  Jonathon turned to look at her, seeing all the details of her face and posture. Reading her thoughts in those details. Her raven black hair, dark Amerind skin. The dull copper of her irises and the fine, beautiful line of her mouth.

  He’d been in her mind so many times via the simsense link they shared. Feeling her emotions as though they were his. He knew what the tilt of her head meant, what she was feeling as she absently scratched the polished red-brown surface of the table in front of her. She was just as bored as he was.

  She looked up at him and smiled, then rolled her eyes playfully. And in that smile, Jonathon read her thoughts. She wants to get out of here.

  Jonathon stood up at the same time she did. "Excuse us," he said, interrupting the suit who’d been pontificating. "But we’ve got a tough match tomorrow night in New Orleans, and we’d like to get some rest."

  The suit just stared at him, not knowing how to respond.

  "I don’t really think you need us anymore right now," Jonathon said. "Whatever you decide will be all right with us." He put his hand out for Tamara, and they turned to leave the room.

  When they’d cleared the doors, Tamara burst into laughter. "Thanks," she said. "I was about to suffocate in there. How’ve you been able to sit through those meetings all this time?"

  "Must be all the extra nuyen that comes pouring in with the deals," Jonathon told her. "Guess I’ve just built up a tolerance."

  "Slot the nuyen," she said. "We make enough riding for the team. What I want out of it is the limelight. Maybe a chance to make a simfeature or something. But I hate this board meeting drek."

  "It gets easier," Jonathon said as they reached the elevator. "You want to stop in the atrium for a cerveza? Venny’s meeting me downstairs."

  Tamara considered. "Sure, but I need to make it quick. Got a date tonight."

  "Oh yeah? The dreamer again? Grids?"

  "Grids will be there . . . sort of . . . but my main date is that S-K exec from Essen."

  "Michaelson? I didn’t think you were seeing him anymore."

  "This’ll be the last time."

  Jonathon just shook his head. Tamara was scheming something, he could tell. But he didn’t ask about it, didn’t really want to know. Besides, she would elaborate if and when it suited her.

  "I’ll tell you about it tomorrow," she said. "In New Orleans."

  "Just be careful," he said. "Playing around with powerful people is a dangerous business." Jonathan spoke the words even though he knew they weren’t needed. Tamara already knew everything he felt, and she would either act on it or not.

  Probably not.

  She just smiled at him as he pressed the tab to call the elevator. A smile that told him everything was going to be fine. Just fine.

  He only wished he could believe it.

  2

  High up the blue, steel-and-glass side of the Venice Beach Hilton, Grids Desmond stared out the window of his hotel room, watching the huge orange sun setting in an ocean of aquamarine green. A brilliant red streak reflected off the water, shimmering, glowing like a broad trail of fire between him and the sun. The Los Angeles smog had few redeeming qualities, but it did help turn the sunsets from merely beautiful into spectacular.

  Grids was thin for a human, with little muscle on his bones and less fat. Maybe because he subsisted mostly on a diet of cheese crackers and soykaf. His pale skin showed no trace of amber melanin hue since he almost never ventured into the sunshine without his customary black jeans and Mickey Mouse T-shirt. Despite that, he was handsome in an old-fashioned film star way. Black, tousled hair, white skin. Thin face with delicate, almost feminine features. All but the eyes; his hawk-sharp, dark eyes hinted at what was behind them—a genius intelligence, and a quick, if detached, wit.

  Grids watched and waited. Waited for the sting to begin.

  Nearer, the daytime spectacles at Venice Beach were winding down, and the evening shows were about to begin. Grids brought his Ares CCD binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the beach. A team of hugely muscled joyboys performed acrobatics to a crowd of onlo
okers. The men had been surgically altered to look like clones—all natural flesh, identical deep brown tans, and blond wavy hair.

  Grids scanned across the crowds. There were magic illusions, dance routines, basketball, volleyball, and sparring matches. People sold ’ware of every shape, size, and prescription. Venice Beach was safe territory, bounded by a huge desalinization plant to the south and the walled-off corporate beaches of Santa Monica to the north. It was also protected by the Mafia and thus considered neutral turf by the local gangs who prowled the toxic beachfront district south of the desalinization plant.

  Grids brought his headclock into focus on his retina as he pulled the binox from his eyes. 07:18:24 pm. Almost time.

  He’d been waiting for Tamara since just after one o’clock that afternoon, arriving at the Venice Hilton early to avert any suspicion. He’d checked into room 2305 seemingly at random, but had actually chosen it from a list stored in his internal headware memory of rooms within range of Tamara’s simlink transmitter. He’d had plenty of time to set up the Truman Realink simrecorder and double-check the mods that would make the signals to and from the simrig implanted in Tamara’s head look, at a glance, like portable telecon carrier waves.

  Tam’s simrig had been far easier to tweak than others Grids had worked with because it was UCAS military grade, from her years as a test pilot for the United Canadian and American States. Its virtual interface was clunky, but once he figured out what it could do, he marveled at its versatility.

  Though most simware controls—the kind used by actors and simtech crews—were standardized for ease of use, Tamara’s required fine-tuning. Even the most rudimentary features like adjusting range and EC/PC ratios required programming, but the sheer range of wiz options in the hardware made it all worthwhile. It was so flexible that the signal could be encrypted in any number of ways. Grids had found it harder to modify the Truman recorder.