[Shadowrun 05] - Changeling Read online

  A silence fell over the scene, but Peter could not bring himself to crawl out from under the truck. He shook wildly, and it brought a flash-memory of waking up in a sweat the night his transformation had begun. He didn’t want to hear anymore shooting.

  But it started again, this time from just above him. Jenkins was making his last stand.

  Peter saw Go-Mo’s body hit the pavement, cut in half at the waist by intense automatic fire.

  A panic gripped his stomach. Death didn’t seem as bad as the terrible violence that accompanied it.

  He saw Eddy, his right leg bleeding, rolled under the van, safe for the moment.

  The mobsters tried to move up, but Jenkins kept them back with a storm of bullets from the rear of the truck. One hood cried out in pain, and fell to the ground. When he tried to crawl back to the shelter of the crates, Jenkins fired into him again. The man uttered a terrible scream, then fell motionless. The other two hoods remained pinned down behind low rises in the ground.

  Peter knew security might arrive soon. He also knew that as long as the guard lived, he himself might die. Eddy was down, the hoods trapped. He had to do something. His breathing increased in pace, and as soon as he noticed it, it got even faster. He really didn’t want to leave the safety beneath the truck, but he knew he had no choice. To make sure he didn’t get caught in random fire by the mobsters, he rolled out from under the van on the side with corpses. His hand accidentally touched the men’s blood, now thick on the pavement. A dizziness passed over him, but he shut his thoughts down and inched his way along the truck until he got to the back, his gun held out before him.

  He peered around the back of the truck.

  Nothing.

  And then Jenkins put his head out the door and looked in the direction of the mobsters, the back of his head to Peter. Peter knew he should shoot now, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  Jenkins apparently sensed something, for he turned his head suddenly and came face to face with Peter. Peter saw a thought in Jenkins’ eyes: he wanted to bring his gun around to shoot at Peter. He knew it was too late, but he would try.

  Peter pulled the trigger of his pistol.

  The Predator’s bullet slammed into Jenkins’ skull, shattering it, splattering the repository of the man’s personality and knowledge against the metal walls of the truck.

  A white hot flush of victory streamed through Peter. He looked at what had once been a man named Jenkins. He had won. Though he’d almost died, he’d fought and won.

  Then Peter fell to his knees and, despite all his adrenaline-driven good cheer, became quite sick.

  11

  Billy sat behind his desk and laughed, tears running down his cheeks. Eddy joined in the mirth. Peter sat by, smiling weakly but he was certainly not jovial.

  In telling Billy how the heist had gone, Eddy had, thankfully, left out the fact that Peter had gotten sick.

  “Security heard the shots and were on their way, but we took the van and made our break through the gate we’d left open, just like like like we planned. That was it.”

  Billy nodded approvingly. “Well, all hell broke loose, but you two came through. You got the bodies, you got the hides. Slick. Very slick.” He stood and held out his hand to Eddy. “Well done. Mr. Itami will be quite impressed. And you,” he said to Peter, “the men I sent you with won’t shut up about you. You are a true warrior.” He thrust out his hand, and Peter touched the fingertips, as he had decided would be his manner when asked to shake hands.

  No, no, I’m not, Peter thought. But he kept quiet, because Billy’s smile made him want to let Billy think whatever Billy wanted to about him.

  “And your leg?” Billy asked Eddy.

  “Your magician fixed it right up. Up.”

  Billy started to laugh again. “He wasn’t bribed!” he cried out. Eddy tittered, and then broke out into a full-blown guffaw.

  Still laughing, Billy said, “He’s dead now.”

  “Who?” asked Eddy, startled.

  “The decker. We tracked him down.”

  The two of them laughed loudly all over again.

  Billy looked up at Peter. “You are so serious. I like that. I have a job for you. How’d you like to be my bodyguard?”

  What?

  “And you,” he said, turning to Eddy, “my lieutenant. Mr. Itami is letting me expand my crew, and I want you by my side. You’re crafty, you know the streets. I like you. And now! Let’s go celebrate.”

  * * *

  First they went to buy a suit for Peter, at Billy’s insistence. After piling into Billy’s big Nightsky limo, they sped off to a department store whose owner Billy knew well. A salesman and a tailor were waiting for them, but otherwise the place was empty of customers. In fact, the store was closed.

  “You are more than a muscleboy,” Billy said to Peter. “I know that much.” While he talked Billy paced a circle around Peter, eyeing him up and down. Peter knew that might have made other people nervous, but compared to his father’s indifferent, clinical eyes, this scrutiny was like being massaged by Thomas’ hands. “I don’t want a bodyguard who merely knows how to fight. If a fight breaks out next to me, I’m already too near death. Anyone who would let that happen would be useless as a guard. No, your job is to protect me, but that means keeping anything from happening in the first place. A lot of this has to do with attitude. You shouldn’t have to pull a gun or throw a punch. You see anyone look at me the wrong way, you stare him back down. Got it?”

  Peter looked into Billy’s face and saw that Billy really wanted to know if he got it. It wasn’t condescension, thinking that Peter was too stupid to understand. He just wanted to check in with Peter. To connect. Peter smiled. He couldn’t help himself. “Yes.”

  The tailor said, “Give us half an hour. Please.”

  Billy turned to Peter. “All right with you?”

  Peter smiled again, and looked down at the little tailor, a pure human. The man looked up at him, subtly pleading for Peter’s good grace. “Yes. All right.”

  The man let out a sigh.

  Peter decided he liked the way things were going.

  When the suit was finished, Peter looked at himself in the mirror. He was still massive, but now, somehow legitimate. Adult. Human. Suddenly realizing he’d been slumping for months, he stood up taller and straighter. He wanted to show off his body in his new suit. His massive hands protruded from the dark sleeves, his toothy face rose from the collar, but it was all right. In a nearly perverse way there was something intriguing about him.

  They piled back into a limo—a huge limo in which Peter could sit without having his knees up to his chin.

  Billy gave instructions to the driver, and they were off.

  Compared to the day’s earlier ill-events, riding in the car seemed like heaven. Peter settled deep into the soft upholstery. Billy opened a bar and offered him a drink, and Peter asked for a beer. He’d had only two drinks in his life, and he knew he had to be careful of losing control. But he wanted so much to relax, to just forget, just for a little while. Just a little bit.

  The music was soft—something very old, classical, it was called, and it smacked of class. After living on the. streets and then in a roach-infested apartment for so long, Peter found Billy’s invitation into the lap of mobile luxury a tonic.

  He closed his eyes, and for an instant he saw Jenkins’ ruined head. Then he opened his eyes, and everything was all right. Eddy was laughing with Billy, and even Peter found himself slipping into a smile.

  “Ah, so the Profezzur can be happy!” Billy exclaimed. “Terrific.”

  A thought slid through his mind, tentative at first, and then it nestled comfortably: He was finally safe because he’d killed Jenkins, and since Jenkins was dead, there was nothing to be done about it now. He would enjoy it all however he could.

  The limo pulled up before a posh nightclub west of The Crew. Swirling arc lamps lit the sky and formed churning pillars of light. “Just opened,” Billy said. “Cat
ers to the new simsense technicians they’re housing out here.” He leaned forward to Peter. “Tonight’s your test. Let’s see how well you handle yourself.”

  Peter slipped on his dopey grin. “Yes, sir, Billy.”

  “Terrific. Spirits, you’re cute. But let me see a look. Something that will keep me safe.”

  Peter tried to focus a threatening gaze. He knew he wasn’t quite pulling it off, and then he remembered how he’d felt knowing it was either Jenkins or him.

  Billy smiled. “Very good. Let’s go.”

  A long line of people stood outside the door. Eddy walked alongside Peter while Billy remained in the Nightsky. “Get the boss through. He’s important. Make the crowd know that.” Peter smirked at the line of small people waiting to get in. Suddenly his size and strength didn’t seem like clumsy liabilities. Billy had given him the authority to use his natural assets.

  He walked briskly up to the line. The material of the suit felt wonderful against his skin; it was a uniform of respectability. The people in the line didn’t take long noticing the troll striding up to them. Fear jumped from one face to the next as people nudged one another. The crowd quickly parted….

  … And revealed two heavy-set guards armed with stun batons. One of them spoke into the small head-mike that wound around to his mouth, asking for heavy back-up. The men eyed him, smiled at him, ready for a fight, and Peter remembered the police. He didn’t want to fight, he just wanted to be frightening. Suddenly the magic Billy had given him was gone. Fear ran through his body to his arms and into fingers. He wanted to make a fist, but couldn’t.

  And Billy was beside him, bringing the magic back again. “These are my associates,” he said. “The Profezzur and Fast Eddy.”

  The demeanor of the guards changed instantly. “Mr. Shaw! A pleasure. We didn’t know.”

  “No problem!” And he shoved some bucks into their breast pockets. Both guards looked up at Peter, smiling and nodding. “Good evening, Profezzur! Sorry about the confusion. But you know, can’t be too careful.”

  Was he blessed? Was Billy an angel from the Christian heaven, come down to surround him with holy comfort? Peter couldn’t remember being so well-treated.

  Billy strode into the lobby of the club, with Peter staying close. He realized that he was holding his head high, swinging his arms confidently. Glaring, he scanned the crowd, warning all that Billy was under his protection.

  And he under Billy’s.

  They entered the dance area. Tables and booths ringed the dance floor at various levels. Colored lights spun around. They flashed. The music pounded. Somehow the deep tones rumbled through Peter’s flesh, pressing hard against the beat of his heart. It was almost like being on the verge of death, but more like living a different way.

  A man in a leather jacket spotted Billy and rushed over. “Mr. Shaw! A pleasure. This way, please!” he shouted over the music.

  The man led them up a flight of stairs and over to a circular table. The table offered perfect sightlines to everywhere in the club.

  Billy and Eddy sat down. Peter thought that as a troll and bodyguard, he would spend the night standing. But then he saw two men struggling with a troll-sized reinforced chair. “Get out of the way,” they shouted at patrons whose tables were between them and Billy’s table.

  Soon the chair was in place and Peter slumped down into it.

  “How’s it feel?” Billy shouted.

  What could Peter say? It was a heavy metal chair, not particularly comfortable. But the fact that Billy asked him how it felt? That made the moment a treasured holo, an image he would carry around forever and savor whenever he needed to lift his spirits.

  “Wiz!” Peter shouted back. “Wonderful!” He laughed joyously.

  When had he last laughed like that—not because something was funny, but because the very act of being alive thrilled him so? Maybe he never had.

  Peter looked to Billy and Eddy, who grinned wildly at one another and then looked back at Peter. His happiness amused them. And that was all right, too.

  Months passed.

  Policemen quickly learned Peter’s name and treated him with respect. Women at nightclubs winked at him, and sometimes even brushed up against him. He knew it was all because of Billy, but he didn’t mind. It was better than the streets. It was better than his father’s house.

  Peter got his own place, and Eddy got his.

  Sometimes Peter was so enjoying being important that he let his research slip from his daily routine. But Eddy turned Wednesday night into Story Night, and every week he would show up with an armful of take-out Japanese and insist that Peter tell him the things he had learned. Knowing that Eddy would show up on Wednesday night kept Peter working. Without ever mentioning it directly, Eddy reminded Peter of his claim that he would become human again.

  “Some genes are pleiotropic,” Peter began one night. “That is, one gene may affect many traits. I think the metahuman gene might be a pleiotropic. It would make sense. If the gene is there in the body, and the ‘magical environment’ activates it, then it could trigger subtler genetic shifts throughout the body. This way you wouldn’t have hundreds of thousands of triggers all waiting to go off in a person. In fact, many people who aren’t metahuman might have many metahuman genes, but over the centuries, their genetic branches lost the pleiotropic metahuman trigger. Even when the environment changed, they didn’t have the one gene needed to activate all the other genes.”

  Eddy nodded his head, greedily slipping fried rice into his mouth.

  “The idea, then, is that I’ve still got the same genes for eyes as when I was human, the same genes for arms, fingers… but the pleiotropic metahuman gene alters all of them just a bit. Still have eyes, but now they’re bigger and yellow. Still have skin, but now it’s gray-green and hard.

  “The problem is, there’s no way to check this now. It’ll be years before work is finished on the metahuman genome.”

  “Any way you can do it yourself?”

  “Nope. No way. Way too big. I’m talking big machines, huge staffs. I’ll have to wait for other people to do it. Like I said, it’ll be years.”

  Years passed.

  The Itami gang’s power grew, and so did Billy’s position. As he rose, so did Eddy and Peter along with him.

  “Peter, I need some wetwork done,” said Billy one afternoon.

  Peter had had to kill three people in his job of defending Billy, but he’d never been ordered out to kill in cold blood. Each of those three deaths he’d justified as part of the game among mobsters. Everyone knew the rules going in and everyone took his chances.

  “Who?” Peter asked.

  Peter thought he saw a glint of annoyance in Billy’s eyes, and then Billy became beatific and generous all over again. “Does it make a difference who?”

  It did, or at least Peter thought it might, but all he said was, “No, Billy.”

  “Good.”

  It was early evening when Peter walked into Mick’s, a bar located in the midst of the Southside in an area under massive redevelopment. Mick’s was a hangout for pure-human construction workers. Crude four leaf clovers carved from sheet metal hung on the walls.

  O’Malley sat in the middle of the bar, surrounded by his mobster cronies. He controlled the construction industry in Chicago. There were no unions anymore, but workers could still stage slow-downs, still arrange accidents. Itami was tired of slow-downs, tired of accidents. He needed the construction finished in certain neighborhoods so that he could start dumping some of the expensive illegal simsense chips he’d invested in. He wanted the rich to have new homes.

  A couple of thick, stocky men slid off their stools and stared at Peter. One or two grinned. They thought they were about to have a good time with a stupid troll.

  Nope. Billy was on Peter’s side.

  Peter whipped out his Uzi and shot it down the length of the bar into O’Malley. The fat Irishman’s belly ripped open and his face betrayed surprise for just a moment.


  Men rushed at Peter, guns were drawn, but Peter was suddenly invisible, vanished into thin air.

  He rushed for the door, leaving mass confusion behind.

  Eddy had the Tornado running. He popped the back door open and Peter jumped inside, spreading out flat along the passenger seat.

  The mage sitting in the front seat next to Eddy leaned back as Eddy peeled the Tornado out into the street. Peter caught a reflection of himself in the mage’s silver eyes; cybernetic eyes containing microtronics that mimicked the heat-sensing capabilities of Peter’s own, natural eyes. Through the window, the dimness of the bar held no secrets from a mage who could see in the dark. “How’d it go?”

  The question caught Peter off guard. Yes, O’Malley was dead. So it went well. But another life stopped? Good?

  He remembered Eddy’s warning: Crime isn’t an introspective profession.

  “He’s dead.”

  Meanwhile, Peter was following the research. Markel found the metahuman gene sequence in unborn fetuses. Theories supporting the idea that metahuman genes had always been in people were strengthened.

  His father was hired away from the U. of C. by a prominent biotech firm based in Chicago. Landsgate was hired by Northwestern University. Peter thought about calling Dr. Landsgate, but couldn’t think of what he would say. He simply wanted contact with his childhood friend, like an open channel with neither party talking.

  Peter passed through his mid-twenties. He was studying and learning about the secrets of the body and how it lived. He was also learning how to kill it. His life continued along his twin path, a double helix of biology and murder twining inextricably together.

  * * *

  Wednesday night.

  “You you you all right?” Eddy was chewing a mouthful of squid.

  “Yeah. I was just thinking…”