"Who knows,” Sally said. “What does it matter?”
Sam took a deep breath. “If it was, I don’t think that the Vigid will do what you expect it to.”
“Ah,” sneered the Elf, “observe how the merchandise displays an extensive biotechnical knowledge. We may yet realize a handsome profit.”
“I’m not a biotech,” Sam said, letting his annoyance show. “I’m just a researcher. But I’ve got a good memory. I saw an article on Vigid once. Some researcher for the UCAS government had done an experiment. It got contaminated when an assistant spilled some acetone while cleaning glassware. The acetone interacted with the protein shell of the virus, stripping parts of it and causing the core genetic material to mutate in an isomeric form.”
“So it’s a different bug.” the Elf drawled.
“It’s a lethal bug. That lab assistant died. In a replication test, thirty to forty percent of the analog mice exposed to the isomeric virus died.”
Sally’s took became grim during Sam’s recitation. She placed her kaf mug on the floor in a slow and deliberate manner. “We weren’t hired for wetwork.”
“Certes, the fee was far too low,” the Elf agreed.
“Frag the fees!” Ghost snarled, needles flashing at his fingertips. “Somebody set us up.”
Sally nodded slowly. “I think we need to talk to someone about our recent employers before we go to meet them.”
Sam was not sure why the runners had brought him along, but he didn’t think it politic to ask. They had been rejoined by the Ork called Kham, who seemed outraged at the possibility of a set-up. He had to be dissuaded from bringing heavy weaponry along to the meeting with the fixer.
The walk to the meet-site was through a kind of place Sam had only seen on the trid. The streets were crowded, filled with rockerhaunts, gutterpunks, and chippies. Squatters held their miserable alleys and boxes against muscle-boys from the gangs, and razorguys hung tough behind their moneyed charges. The hungry and the thrill-seekers mingled cheek to chromed jowl in the harsh glare of the neon and public tridscreens.
The noise and crowd swirled around them, parting and reforming as they passed. Even the hardest-looking Street samurai and Ork bullyboys seemed to fade from their path without causing trouble. Maybe the mage had something to do with it, or maybe it was simply Sam’s imagination.
They stopped at an abandoned storefront in a less congested area. Through the smashed window, what little Sam could see of the building’s floor was as littered and stained as the sidewalk. Even from outside, the odor of stale urine and refuse was intense. No one on the street paid the least attention when the group entered the building.
Three men waited inside. All were tall and rangy. Hard muscles showed wherever their street garb exposed flesh.
All carried obvious weaponry. Street samurai, Sam guessed, but he saw none of the obvious cyberware the breed favored. Either they were so good they didn’t need enhancement or else their modifications were very subtle. Either way, they had to be dangerous.
The blond one on the left had a large dog by his side, at least half-wolf in its bloodline. The beast growled softly when Sam and the runners entered. While the others exchanged opening pleasantries with the men. Sam crouched and held out his hand to the animal. Cautiously, its posture indicating suspicion, the beast advanced to sniff at his hand.
“Freya bites,” one of the fixer’s men warned.
“I’m sure she does,” Sam returned, without taking his eyes from Freya. The animal gave the tips of Sam’s fingers a tentative lick. He smiled, reaching his other hand out slowly to ruffle the fur at the side of Freya’s head. “She’s marvelous. Where did you get her?”
“She followed me home one night,” the guard said sarcastically.
The sound of a man clearing his throat caused Sam to turn. The runners were already facing the newcomers. Two more rangy samurai flanked a bigger man. He was dark, even without the benefit of backlighting from the street. His richly tailored suit was out of place among the ruins, but he seemed completely at home. The man, obviously the fixer they had come to meet, stepped forward.
“Making new friends?”
Sam thought the raspy-voiced fixer was speaking to him, but Sally replied.
“Always. You know what a party girl I am.”
If the fixer was amused, his heavily pockmarked face didn’t show it. He simply turned his cold eyes on the magician.
“I’m glad you could spare the time for a meet,” she said. “I’m sure I can make it worth your while, Castillano.”
Castillano shrugged. “Why me? Cog’s your preferred connection.”
“Cog’s unavailable.”
The fixer’s face remained expressionless. “I’m second-best,” he said, making his question a statement.
Sally gave him a light laugh. “Let’s just say I thought you were the best choice tonight.”
“You need a specialist?”
“What we’re most interested in right now is information.”
“A target?”
“An employer.”
Castillano rubbed his hands together meditatively. Had his face shown any interest, Sam might have thought him a merchant scenting an easy sale. The fixer opened his month slightly and ran the edge of his tongue along the lower lip. “That sort of information is in high demand at the moment.”
The shadowrunners exchanged glances. “Something come down that we haven’t heard about?”
“Maybe,” Castillano responded noncommittally.
“Add it to the bill.”
The fixer nodded in acceptance. “Smilin’ Sam and Johnny Come Lately.”
Sally cocked her head to the side, her expression slightly annoyed. “News about the firefight at the After Ours Bar is hardly a commodity. The screamsheets were full of it.”
“Screamsheets don’t mention the rifle.”
“What rifle?” Sally asked in sudden interest.
“Arisaka KZ-977. Sniper model. Not silenced. Lone Star Security picked it up in the street in front of the building where your two acquaintances were killed.”
“They don’t use anything big,” Ghost interjected.
“Yeah,” the Ork agreed. “Johnny never did like loud noises. A real runt pup dat way.”
Castillano stared at the Ork.
“What’s the point, Castillano?”
“Mr. James Yoshimura died of a single shot to the head as he left the After Ours. Pair of Lone Star officers saw Yoshimura go down and heard the shot. They spotted Sam and Johnny. One of the runners panicked and shot at the cops. Cops shot back. The rifle fell. The runners died.
“Lone Star ballistics matched the gun to the lethal bullet. Trajectory puts the shooter in the vicinity of the runners. The rifle survived the drop better than Smilin’ Sam.”
“No other witnesses?”
“None,” Castillano confirmed.
“Dirty cops,” Ghost concluded. “Sam and Johnny were bagmen and cats. They didn’t do wetwork.”
“Maybe. The Lone Stars have clean records. Apparently incorruptible. Just quick to shoot.”
“Then Sam and Johnny were set up.”
Castillano shrugged.
“And you know something about it.”