Shadowrun: For a Few Nuyen More: Shadowrun

By Stephen Dedman

DARK CLOUDS OF WAR…

 

…are gathering among the various criminal factions of Seattle, and Ratatosk, 8-ball, Mute, and the rest of their shadowrunning team and allies are caught in the middle almost before they know what's even going on. A powerful, highly modified assassin duo is killing bosses and setting the various factions against each other, and the team is called on by both Knight Errant and one of the Mafia groups to find a way to stop the bloodshed before the streets truly run red.

 

But while locating these assassins is one thing, stopping them is something else entirely. The duo has been modified to within an inch of their lives, swimming in enough magic and cyberware to make them nearly indestructible. Ratatosk and his crew will have to use every bit of cunning and street smarts they know to take these seemingly unstoppable killers down…before the killers get to them.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catalyst Game Labs
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201589141

Book preview

One

The job was just a simple theft and destruction run, a smash and grab that didn’t really require 8-ball’s special expertise, but Ratatosk had recruited him because it had been a slow month and he knew his friend’s DocWagon contract was due for renewal.

Mute parked the stolen Eurovan around the corner from the gate, and sub-vocalized into her micro-transceiver’s throat mic. Despite her street name, she could talk audibly when she considered it necessary. Ready?

Ready, Ratatosk replied, jacking in.

Mute, 8-ball, and Ricky Raccoon donned their dust masks, safety goggles, gloves, and backpacks. The raccoon shaman stared into the astral as they walked toward the entrance, then cast an invisibility spell as they neared the sentry box. The guard, as expected, was watching the game, projecting trideo from his commlink—they’d timed the run to coincide with the final quarter of a game between the Screamers and the Tacoma Wings—and he didn’t look up as Mute and Ricky climbed over the boom gate and 8-ball ducked under it. Mute quickly led the way to the main building and opened a side door Ratatosk had unlocked.

Once the trio stepped inside, Ricky dropped the spell. They were dressed as cleaners, and in the unlikely event they encountered any more security staff, their hooded coveralls, filter masks, and backpacks disguised as industrial vacuum cleaners meant they were so far beneath notice as to still be effectively invisible. Ratatosk was watching them through the building’s security cameras while sitting in the library at the University of Washington among a crowd of students, giving him plenty of time to slot and run in case he triggered some Trace IC and was tracked back to his physical location.

All of the magical security at Hollywood Simsense Entertainment was designed to keep out astral beings; with hundreds of people passing through the gates every day, some of them magically active, the watcher spirits had been instructed to ignore meatbodies unless an alarm was sounded. The real cleaning crew, which included dwarfs as well as humans, had been checked in by the sentry at the gate nearly an hour before, but Ratatosk had confirmed that most of them were in the canteen watching the game with the guards. The trio reached the wardrobe department without seeing anyone else, and Ratatosk unlocked the door.

The brief had been simple. There were six costumes they had to steal or, failing that, destroy. Anything else in the room could be taken, if they thought they could fence it, or damaged. None of the shadowrunners had asked why, or who the Mr. Johnson who had hired them was working for. Mute suspected the main purpose was to stop production on one of the studio’s relatively big-budget epics, planned for release in both softcore and hardcore versions: a delay would force the company to pay overtime to some of the cast and/or crew while the costumes were remade and shooting ran over schedule. She scanned the garments for RFIDs, while 8-ball unslung the dummy vacuum cleaner from his back and opened it, revealing six incendiary limpet mines.

So far, so simple, Mute thought as she removed her own pack and stuffed two of the elaborate costumes into it. There didn’t seem to be much else in the room worth stealing, and they didn’t have time to search the rest of the building: the studio’s armory was protected with much heavier security, magical as well as electronic, as was any portable simsense equipment and the caches of drugs for the actors and editors. The studio’s datastores of nuyen, contracts, scripts and unreleased footage, similarly, were encased in serious IC, so it seemed likely they weren’t going to walk out with much more than the agreed-upon fee.

Any suggestions? she murmured, looking into the security camera.

"That latex nurse’s uniform is the one Alicia Strasser wore in I Never Metahuman I Didn’t Like, Ratatosk replied. I can find a buyer for it. The database doesn’t say which items are designer originals and which ones are knock-offs, and none are likely to be armored, but if you want to go shopping, you have about four minutes. Okay?"

8-ball muttered Fashion victims, but headed for the racks of women’s shoes while Mute and Ricky looked for labels in the gowns and coats. Three minutes later, after 8-ball had set the timers on the incendiaries, they were back in the corridor. Ricky paused to spray the room with a toxic wave spell, then sulkily shut the door behind him.

Mute shook her head. The twenty-two-year-old street shaman knew the spells they needed for this job, but he was a newbie, young enough to still think running the shadows was always as glamorous and exciting as it was on trideos and simsense. She wanted to tell him the best runs were usually the ones that paid the bills without anyone getting shot at, but decided that could wait until they were back in the van.

Sickle looked down at the cars in the lot and sneered. Two VW Elektros, a Leyland-Zil Tsarina, a Jackrabbit that looked old enough to vote, and a Bulldog Step-Van with the logo of a mobile mechanic. Sending her to a cut-rate Koreatown brothel that provided low-grade wageslaves with watered-down booze, lethargic striptease, and hurried, unimaginative sex felt like an insult, particularly as she and Hammer were primarily there to supervise a wrecking crew she had recruited from a street gang.

Ours not to reason why, Hammer had said, as the four young gangers gleefully rampaged through the rain-slick parking lot with chains and knives. Sickle suspected that was the only line of poetry he knew—he was far from stupid, especially by troll standards, but he’d never been much of a reader—but she was quiet as he bent down to place small mines and transparent spikes behind the tires of some of the vehicles. He straightened suddenly when the back door of the brothel opened and reached for the Enfield shotgun slung across his back.

Sickle grinned, and unsheathed her spurs.

Shit!

8-ball jumped as he heard Ratatosk’s voice in his earpiece. What’s—

Someone’s gone in! The decker peered through the cameras in the corridor outside the storeroom as the door closed, then switched to the view inside the acid-scarred room.

Security?

No, a cleaner. And you’ve only got two minutes before the incendiaries start going off.

Mute was already running back down the corridor, and 8-ball ordered Ricky to follow her. Ratatosk watched as the cleaner removed her safety goggles and filter mask, revealing a plain round face with small tusks, then looked around in shock at the tattered costumes on the racks. The magically generated acid had dissipated, but the damage was obvious, and the ork looked horrified as she picked up a ruined wedding dress. Ratatosk guessed she visited the wardrobe department to try on garments far more glamorous than any she could ever afford, and she had probably taken the job, almost certainly at less than the legal minimum wage, for that small perk. He hurriedly cut off any comm lines to the security station to try to stop the woman raising the alarm.

You know stunbolt, right? Mute asked the shaman as they hurried toward the storeroom.

Yes, but—

Drain?

Yeah.

Understood. She unzipped a pocket of her coveralls and drew her Narcoject dart pistol. 8-ball, laboring to keep up, had a taser in his left hand and a Remington Roomsweeper, reloaded with gel rounds, in his right. One minute.

Ratatosk gritted his teeth, then switched on the speaker in the storeroom. Get out of there and shut the door! he snapped. The hazmat team is already on its way.

The cleaner looked up, then dropped the dress and hurried back outside. Ratatosk examined the code for the electronic lock, hoping to jam it so even the security team couldn’t override it. Mute barreled around the corner and saw the cleaner staring at the door in a mixture of horror and confusion, and fired the Narcoject twice. When the ork crumpled, she turned to Ricky and said, Get out of here.

What?

You and Ball get back to the van; run if you have to. I’ll catch up if I can. She hurried over to where the ork lay stunned. Go!

There was a series of faint WHOOMPHs as the incendiaries detonated. The shaman hesitated, then turned and ran back around the corner. Mute took a moment to check that the cleaner was still breathing, then placed her filter mask over the ork’s nose and mouth and dragged her away from the door as smoke began to seep underneath it.

Game’s nearly over, said Ratatosk. One minute. Another minute or two for them to finish their beers and settle their bets, but you’d better move your ass.

Mute nodded, and ran toward the exit, where Ricky and 8-ball were waiting. They heard the guard at the gate cheering as the final whistle blew, and he grinned at them as they ran their fake IDs past the scanner on the way out.

The man who emerged from the brothel was middle-aged and stocky, wearing a raincoat over an ill-fitting gray suit. Sickle hurtled toward him and stabbed him under the ribs with one of her spurs with surgical precision, instantly silencing him. She pulled the body into the parking lot and let the door swing shut, then withdrew her spur and let the corpse fall onto the wet asphalt.

OUT! she growled. Their decker was feeding a looped video of the parking lot back to the security station, but Sickle knew if anyone was watching the monitors rather than the Screamers game, they were likely to notice the client had failed to appear and would probably send the bouncer to investigate.

As expected, the door re-opened while the last of the gangers was running out of the lot, and a musclebound human as big as an ork stuck a submachine gun through the gap. Sickle, waiting next to the door, slashed with her spur, amputating the man’s hand at the wrist. There was a scream of pain mixed with Korean obscenities, cut off by the heavy door swinging shut.

Sickle grabbed the gun and ran.

Ricky leaned back in the shotgun seat, removed his dust mask as the van headed away from the studios, and chuckled. Home safe!

Not yet, said 8-ball. Was the cleaner okay?

She should be, Ratatosk replied over the micro-transceivers. I switched the alarms back on as soon as you were all past the gate, and the security team took her to the infirmary. She’s still unconscious and may have inhaled some smoke, but she should pull through. And one of the guards burned his hand on the door handle. They’ve called for a fire truck and an ambulance, but we should have some time before the Arson Squad shows up. They know the fire wasn’t an accident, though.

You’re still in their system? asked Ricky. Isn’t that a bit risky?

I’ll jack out in a second, but I wanted to make sure no one was killed. We have a rep to maintain.

We try to keep collateral damage to a minimum, 8-ball explained to the young shaman. We only kill if we’re paid to—and paid well. If they want indiscriminate slaughter, they can go to Genocide George or some other psycho.

Sickle looked at the SMG—a Korean copy of an MP9, firing cased ammo—and the tiny camera attached to the Picatinny rail, and muttered, Smartgun. Shit.

How much do you think he saw? asked Hammer.

Not me or you. That’s what matters. Where do you want to drop the gangers?

Down near Sea-Tac, the troll replied, turning south at the next corner. A few minutes later, he parked the Step-Van in a muddy vacant lot. He and Sickle walked to the back of the van and opened the cargo bay doors. Okay, chummers, end of the line. Everybody out.

The four young men clambered out of the van and looked around. Where are we? asked the tallest, as an airliner flew overhead.

You heard him, said Sickle, and with a short burst from the smartgun, shot each of them squarely between the eyes, one bullet apiece. End of the line.

Two

Marcus Shawn yawned as he stepped out of the car, sipped tea from his travel mug, and nodded at the burly detective who appeared to be in charge.

Rough night? asked Bailey with a hint of genuine sympathy.

Homicide at a brothel in Koreatown, said the elf, yawning again. The only witness is still in surgery, getting measured for a new arm.

Madam Kim’s Park ’n Ride?

Uh-huh. What have you got here? He knew Bailey mostly by reputation: the Gang Squad detective was methodical, meticulous, honest, accustomed to uncooperative witnesses, and resigned to an even lower success rate than his counterparts in Homicide. Most importantly, from the forensic mage’s perspective, he was usually careful not to contaminate a crime scene if it could be avoided.

Four dead kids in Cutter colors. ME confirms they were all shot in the forehead, one bullet apiece, fairly close range but no contact wounds. And we found four empty casings, look like they’re from the same gun. There might be more, but we didn’t want to look too closely until you got here; settled for having Delambre make a few passes with the Fly-Spy. He waved at the drone rigger leaning against the Patrol-One. No sign of any DNA from the shooters yet, or anything else you can use as a material link.

Shawn’s eyes widened as he gazed at the bodies, covered in waterproof tarps. One shooter, four bodies, four shots? Even if they used a smartgun, that’s pretty good shooting. The Cutters at war with anyone at present?

Not last I heard.

Whose turf is this?

Bailey paused as a jetliner passed overhead, waiting until the noise level had dropped enough that normal conversation was possible again. Neutral territory. Not enough money to be made around here—it’s all zoned as light industry, and nearly half of those are empty. Last time anyone reported finding bodies here was a few years back, when the truce between the Disassemblers and the Bloody Screamers broke down.

Witnesses?

Uniforms are looking for squatters in the empty buildings, but I don’t like their chances. Can you narrow down time of death? ME said it was sometime between nine and one.

Shawn squatted down, lifted the tarp off one of the corpses, and took his camera out of his crime scene kit. Damn, you weren’t joking about them being kids. Any of them been IDed?

Not positively, but I’m pretty sure I know one of them. Nick Russo. He’s the Don’s cousin.

The mage closed his eyes briefly. Donatello Michaels, a stubborn thirty-two-year-old known to the rest of the Cutters as The Don and to almost everyone else as Mean Old Man Mike, was the gang’s sergeant-at-arms. Though he had less clout than the club’s treasurer and his cohort of MBAs and accountants who ran the gang like a business, Michaels could rely on the loyalty of at least half of his squad of thugs and enforcers. So this could be the start of something very bloody.

The interior of Murphy’s Gym smelled like a men’s locker room with a side order of cheap retirement home, and the walls were thickly papered with fly-specked posters advertising boxing matches, many of them decades old. Though mixed martial arts and Urban Brawl were more popular with under-forties, and few amateurs were willing to challenge the physical adepts who held the titles in every division, boxing was still an Olympic event, and the weight classes meant that, unlike the NFL, it still offered opportunities for humans rather than being dominated by trolls.

Don Michaels was punching a speedball when Bailey walked in, flanked by two middleweights wearing trunks in the Cutters’ green and gold. Michaels glanced at them, then said blandly, Help you?

Police, said Bailey, flashing his badge. I need some information about Nick and his friends.

Nick had lots of friends.

Joe Castle, Frank Petri, and Tony Miller.

Michaels continued jabbing at the speedball. What about ‘em?

Do you know what they were doing last Friday night?

Dying, right?

Before that.

Fucked if I know.

They weren’t working for you?

Your goons already asked me that. No.

You want to say that in front of one of our mages?

If you bring him here, I might. You want me to come to the station, charge me with something. He stopped jabbing at the ball for a moment. You wired?

Moving slowly, Bailey withdrew his commlink from his jacket pocket and placed it on the floor. No recording devices, he said. Eyes and ears are original issue. Mr. Natural, me.

Michaels snorted, but nodded to the boxers, who walked out of earshot.

You need me to say it again? I don’t know where the fuck Nick was that night, or why they ended up in Sea-Tac—but it was a Friday, so my guess would either be cruising or clubbing. You found their cars?

Not yet.

They probably took Nick’s car, that Hyundai he hotted up, or maybe Joe’s Comet.

Unless they stole something better.

Michaels shrugged. Boys’ll be boys. That’s all I can tell you. Frank still lived with his mama; you talked to her?

Uniforms did. She said they went out for pizza. She doesn’t know where.

That’s probably where they started. Do you have their commlinks?

They weren’t on the bodies. We don’t know whether the killers took them or someone looted the bodies later, but we’re not getting a signal from any of them.

Checked their accounts to see whether they spent any nuyen anywhere?

Waiting for a warrant, Bailey admitted. You know what it’s like getting data out of a bank.

Hackers seem to manage it.

I can’t just hire a decker. It’s not admissible, and internal affairs would have my balls for earrings.

Shit. Well, there are a few places I know where they might have gone. Ask Frank’s mama if she saw the car. He swung a savage right hook at the speedball. You still got no fuckin’ idea who killed ’em?

Lieutenant?

Jenna Folsom looked up from her desk as Shawn ducked his head to avoid the top of the doorframe (the Homicide squad room hadn’t been built to accommodate elves, and while Folsom left her office door open, she found her job difficult enough without encouraging visitors). Yes?

I may have something that connects to the stabbing at Madam Kim’s.

Folsom leaned back in her chair and kept her face a neutral mask. She was an attractive, athletic blonde who looked younger than her forty-four years, but she dressed conservatively, and didn’t use cosmetics because she hated the rumors that her appearance had helped her climb the promotion ladder ahead of more experienced colleagues. Go on.

Four kids from the Cutters were found the next morning. Forensics found car window glass in the clothes they were wearing—mostly the soles of their shoes. It matches the smashed windows from the cars in the lot.

You could pick that up in any wreckers’ yard in town. All of these cars were standard models; there must be thousands of ‘em in town. You got anything else that places them at the brothel?

No, but best estimate of time of death is within an hour of the stabbing. And ballistics confirmed they were all shot with the same gun, at a range of three or four meters. Four shots, four kills, and the spent cartridges had Poongsan headstamps, meaning they were manufactured in Korea. The position of the wounds and the bodies shows that the victims didn’t have time to react: one had a Streetline Special, all of them had knives, but none grabbed a weapon or turned and ran. Even with a smartgun on full automatic, that’s almost impossible to pull off without a miss: you’d need either wired reflexes or a hell of a lot of luck.

Folsom’s expression showed she was unimpressed. You said they had knives. Any blood on them that matches either of the victims?

No, the elf admitted. Some old blood on one of them, we’re still looking for a DNA match, but none of the blades were big enough to have made those wounds. The coroner thinks both were made with a cyberspur with a lot of muscle behind it. But the—

Folsom nodded. I’ve read her report. None of your gangers had spurs?

No, but someone slashed the tires of the cars before your vic came out. If we can prove that the knives match those cuts—

Do you know how big a backlog forensics has?

Yes, and I know homicide cases take priority; you can fast-track it.

Sure, but why would I? Okay, maybe your gangers were there when Young was murdered. More likely it’s just a coincidence, but even if they were, how does that help me? They’re dead, so they’re not going to testify.

I saw security cameras in the parking lot. Were they dummies, or were they recording?

Folsom’s expression turned sour. They were hacked, like the gate. Trust me, it was the first thing we checked. I thought the bouncer must have been watching the game like everyone else—hell, maybe he was—but the recordings just show a loop of the parking lot, not a soul there. Kim was too cheap to pay for any sort of magical security, though maybe this’ll change her mind about that. But she pays protection to the Red and Yellows, and while the Cutters are damn near a syndicate in their own right now, I don’t think they’re ready to go into competition with a Seoulpa Ring for protection on turf in the International District. Does Bailey?

I don’t know, but I don’t think so. There’s supposed to be a truce between the Cutters and the Choson Ring, and unless there’s been some deal made that we don’t know about yet, this would royally fuck that up. Could Kim have gotten behind in her payments?

We’re looking into that, but the Red and Yellows wouldn’t need to kill one of her clients to put a scare into her. Their contacts in the Choson Ring and the Hwan Song Sung Pa provide her with the girls and the BTLs she needs to stay in business, so they have all the leverage they need already. Shawn remembered Folsom had been a detective working undercover in Organized Crime before being promoted. And why would any Seoulpa Ring hire Cutters? They’ve lost a lot of ground to the Triads and the Yakuza, but there are always plenty of thugs from the Redmond Barrens eager to prove themselves and move up the food chain. We don’t know why the place was attacked, but whoever did it had enough tech and enough muscle without needing to drag four teenagers along. There were mines and caltrops left under some of the cars, and they weren’t homemade. Sure, gangers could have gotten hold of that sort of hardware, but why would they waste the nuyen? So even if the killings are related, and you haven’t proved that by a long shot, I’m not adding another four bodies to our caseload without a bloody good reason.

She sighed. I know you’re good at your job, but I’m not bad at mine, and neither is Bailey. Your four dead kids were gangers, and they were probably killed by gangers. Let the Gang Squad handle it.

8-ball slid along the genuine leather bench into the recesses of the booth on the restaurant’s back wall, picked up the menu, and managed not to swear. I hope this Van Der Hum is paying for lunch. Where is he, anyway?

You’re the one who wanted to get here early, Ratatosk reminded him. He knew 8-ball was grumpy because he had to check his guns and lined coat to be admitted to the Bellevue Crab House, despite the elven cloakroom attendant’s obvious charms, but at least the maître d’ had the wisdom not to insist the dwarf wear a tie with his electrochromic armor jacket. And yes, he will.

I like to check a place out ahead of time, 8-ball replied. You worked for him before?

No, but Houston set up the meet, so he’ll know the rules.

Well, in that case… 8-ball closed the menu and reached for the wine list. He had finished his first single-malt Scotch and was about to order a second when the maître d’ escorted a fat human in an expensive-looking white suit over to the booth.

My usual, please, said the man as he squeezed his bulk onto the bench, then looked at the trio with mild curiosity. Have you ordered?

Only drinks.

I can recommend the whole crab. Rather messy, but some things are more important than a little mess. Or the salmon.

The salmon does look good, Ratatosk replied, handing his menu to the waiter. He looked at the rings on Van Der Hum’s chubby fingers, and wondered whether any of them were magical. Houston, his fixer, had told him the client wanted to meet with a decker, a covert ops specialist, and a gunslinger, but had specified no spellcasters. The fat man’s eyes looked natural, and he didn’t have any visible cyberware, but the platinum-cased commlink on his wrist looked like a designer original, and he smelled faintly of London Fog cologne.

Seafood platter, said 8-ball, tapping his glass. And another one of these. Mute ordered the crab and a glass of the house white. Van Der Hum waited until the maître d’ was out of earshot, then poured himself a glass of water from the crystal carafe on the table.

Thank you for agreeing to meet me here, he murmured. I’d like to get down to business before the food arrives. I deal in certain rare commodities. A valuable item has been stolen from me, and I want it retrieved. Houston assures me you have the necessary skills for this job, and I can pay you twenty thousand nuyen on delivery. Are you interested?

Mute glanced at Ratatosk. What is the item?

A sword and scabbard.

No ordinary sword, said 8-ball. Enchanted?

Yes. The gentleman who commissioned it, an adept…no longer has any use for it. I was, fortunately, able to buy it back from his estate, but one of my, ah, associates robbed me shortly afterward.

You made the sword?

No. I pride myself that I am a more-than-competent alchemist, but while we were apprenticed to the same master in our younger days, the woman who made this had much greater talent as an artificer, though not for business. This was the last, and best, piece she made before being, ah, recruited by a megacorporation for one of their research facilities. Rumor has it they value her abilities so highly that she is even permitted to see sunlight on occasions.

Ratatosk nodded. Can you, or one of your associates, locate the sword magically?

I suspect it is being held somewhere with serious wards. Van Der Hum touched a button on his commlink, and a datachip popped out of a hidden compartment into his other hand. "You may wish to recruit a spellcaster to deal with some of the magical security at your own expense, but non-magical means may be