Arty's minions smiled at each other and nodded approvingly. The shadowrunners looked at each other, and asked for a moment to discuss the offer. I stood at the back of the room, hardly daring to breathe. Nobody would be sorry to see the Crocs get their comeuppance. I'd heard all about them many times. The abductions. The drugs. Abuse. Destruction. Black magic. Worse. The Crocs were a menace, but these guys looked up to the task. Yes, I remember thinking I'd be very glad to see my passengers take this deal. From the animation of their huddled discussion, I got the sense that they were not too sure. They asked a whole lot of questions about the gang and its crimes, asked for a glimpse of the blueprint file to confirm it was what they were after, and in the end Razor came back.
"Deal," he said.
I wasn't about to put my boat in danger, but Skunk was more than happy to put one of his at their disposal. I figured I'd hang around. If they came back alive then they'd paid for a two-way trip. At any rate, I could hardly leave without seeing how it all turned out.
After they'd shipped out, Arty Skunk walked straight past me and out onto the adjoining roof. "Monty," and a curt nod were all the acknowledgements he could muster. But then he stopped and turned back. "You think they'll manage it?" he asked me, without looking me in the eyes.
I shrugged. "I reckon they've faced worse."
They must have because they were back within half an hour, with barely a scratch on them. A large head and some other bodies were heaped together on the prow. But they hadn't just brought back gangers. There was also a traumatized huddle of six victims, and the dead body of a seventh-a little girl. I couldn't comprehend how long those people must have been swimming in their own filth in a cage under King Croc's nest, nor the kind of abuse they must have endured whenever they were actually let out. At that point I would have done just about any favor for Razor and his friends, but they seemed satisfied with just a ride back to Granville Island with their precious blueprints. As I was leading them back to my boat, I glanced up at the roof. King Croc's fat head, still dripping blood from its flabby severed neck, glowered down at me from its new home, and Arty Skunk, teeth clenched in a sick grin, was hard at work sawing the head off the foul-smelling shaman.
He's had six years to lead Richmond back into the 21st century! I'm lost in memory and gripped by anger, so the boat hits a big wave sideways on and Elf Girl finally gives up her breakfast over the side.
It didn't take Skunk long to realize he was on to something. And somehow it didn't take him much longer to make himself the go-to guy for Vancouver blueprints. Then the Crash ruined a whole lot of people and destroyed a whole lot of records, and Skunk's stock hit a new high on the black market.
I've shipped in a lot of shadowrunners since Razor and his friends. I've overheard a fair few arguments. But in the end, almost all of them have paid Skunk's asking price. Sure, he could sell for cash-he always could have done that, I guess-but he gets a much better deal this way. Arty Skunk no longer runs the southwest corner of the Swamps-he runs the whole place, near enough, and everybody's terrified of him. But there are still Gator Gangs in the Swamps. There are still drugs and crime, disease and tormented spirits. The Dyke was never finished, and now it's nothing more than a decaying trophy shelf for the self-styled Man with the Plans.
The boat plows on through the conflicted sea. The wind is changing, and the haze is lifting. Gulls shriek and squabble over my wake. My eyes keep getting drawn to Elf Girl, draped wretchedly over the railing, staring at the distant fingers of wreckage.
Only once in my life did I ever take on a business partner: a shrewd young ork woman who loved the sea as much as I did and called herself Sounder. It didn't work out. She was too talkative for my tastes, and I wasn't ambitious enough for hers. We agreed to part ways without any ill feeling, and it was on our last trip together, as she lounged against the side of my boat- just where Elf Girl is slumped at this very moment-that Sounder asked me, out of the blue:
"What do you want out of life, Monty?"
I told her: "I'm saving up for a little bar on a hot beach a long way from here."
Quick as a flash she came back: "How much is something like that worth?"
Sounder loved to lace her questions with double meanings like that. And somehow that one question keeps coming back to me.
I drop the throttle and leave the boat lurching to a halt on the tide.
"Hey, what's going on?" hisses the hacker. "You going to try some funny business, old man?" He pulls out a heavy pistol.
I come out of my cabin, waving my shaking hands to try and calm everyone down. "I think there's something you need to know about Arty Skunk."
"And what's that?" says Elf Girl, perking up.
"Arty Skunk is a shit. And he's got to where he is today by getting folks like you to kill his enemies for a few measly files. He could have fixed all this by now. But he hasn't. And he never will."
Elf Girl looks at her comrades with piercing eyes, but stops short of saying, "See?"
"Start up the boat again, old man," says the ork menacingly.
"Just listen to me. Do what you have to do. Get your blueprints. But when we're leaving the Skunkworks, I want you to do a job for me."
They laugh and look around the battered old fishing boat.
I know what they're thinking. "I've saved up a fair bit of money over the years. Twenty thousand nuyen, more or less."
"Small-time smuggler, eh?" the Amerind punk sneers. "Hide your treasure in a cave through the Crash?"
"It's yours if you take out Arty Skunk when you're leaving."
There. It's out. The deal is on the table. My heart feels that much lighter already. Just for having made it.
"Naughty naughty, old man," the hacker sniggers. "What will Mister Skunk think of you, eh?"
I feel a chill in my spine. Damned fool. They're going to take your money anyway. Kill you, or threaten to tell Skunk what you've said.
"Hey, hang on a minute!" pipes Elf Girl. Beautiful Elf Girl. Make me believe in people again.
"That's a lot of money, old man. More than we're being paid for our current job, in fact," she says looking around the others. They nod slightly, conceding the point. "Are you serious? His death is worth that much to you?"
She has the most bewitching eyes. I start to feel like she's playing with my mind, plucking my emotions and listening to what notes they produce. It makes me squirm inside, but the truth is that I want someone to know what I've been feeling, what I've been hiding under this beard.
"It's worth that much to them." I nod toward the coast.
"We don't care about them," says the ork. But I've been watching him on and off through this whole trip and I don't buy it. Maybe he's playing it tough for the hacker and the Amerind punk? I hang my hopes on that, and try to make it easy for him:
"So care about the money. Let me care about them."
It seems I'm not so invisible now. The runners exchange glances for a long time without saying anything. At first I think they're arguing their cases by facial expression alone, but then I remember the newfangled Linked Area Network that all the runner teams have these days. Zeroes and ones are deciding my fate.
Eventually, all eyes turn to the ork. I guess he really is in charge after all.
"Deal," he says.
STREET TALES
HUMANS THE CYCLE OF MAGIC
by Tom Dowd
Speech given by Keynote speaker, Ehran "The Scribe" at the YET (Young Elven Technologists) fund-raising dinner.