Hong Kong Read online

  SHADOWRUN HONG KONG

  Mel Odom

  Based on a story by Harebrained Schemes

  Prologue

  RAYMOND BLACK

  The Redmond Barrens

  Seattle

  United Canadian and American States

  2044

  I’ll never forget the night I met Raymond Black, mostly because I’d believed Duncan was going to die and leave me all alone. Raymond Black changed that. He changed a lot of things.

  Me and Duncan, we’d been alone for a long time. I was a couple years older than him, so I could remember back farther than he could, but every time I did, all I could recall were the foster homes I got bounced out of regularly.

  The longest I’d ever stayed in one was with the Croydon family for two years. They taught me how to pick pockets, hotwire a car, fight with a blade, and pick a lock. When I turned thirteen, I used those skills to get away from them and escape into the shadows.

  A few months after that, I found Duncan Wu living on dumpster food in an alley. He hadn’t run away from his foster home to find something better. He’d run for his life. His foster parents had set up a deal to sell him and the three other kids to a sex slave ring. He was the only one who’d gotten away. Part of me wanted to leave him there, but I couldn’t because I knew from the shape he was in, starving and covered in sores, he wouldn’t make it on his own. So I’d taken him with me, fed him, sheltered him, and gotten him as healthy as we could be under the circumstances.

  For two years, we ran the streets. I stole and robbed enough to keep us going. Sometimes I ran with one of the gangs when the prizes were big enough, but not too big. You gotta stay small in the shadows unless you have the muscle, cyber, or magic to stand up against people who would take whatever you had from you.

  Mostly I was on my own because I didn’t trust anybody. I kept Duncan fed and safe and out of harm’s way. He didn’t like what I had to do to keep us going. He’s got this do-gooder streak that just doesn’t work in the shadows. So I didn’t tell him everything I did for us to survive. Looking back, I guess I was protecting him all the way around. Even what little innocence he held onto.

  We lived rough, moving from squat to squat, all off the grid and in places where older gangers would have taken what little we had and beaten us to a pulp. Or just killed us outright for poaching on their turf.

  But me and Duncan did okay for two years. I learned more about moving and grifting in the shadows, and he stayed safe. The area we lived in, it was more likely he’d end up bleeding out from a knife or cut down in a crossfire between gangs.

  Instead, he got sick. That’s something you can’t see coming. Disease is invisible, just reaches out and grabs you whenever it wants. It grabbed Duncan, knocked him flat, and left him drained and burning up with fever for a week.

  I knew he was gonna die, and part of me was gonna die with him. What’d be left of me wasn’t worth keeping, and I knew that. Still, I’ve never been able to just lie down and quit.

  I dossed us under a bridge near the Snoqualmie River, back in land so rough and toxic not even the gangers fought over it. Duncan had made us a lean-to out of flattened containers he’d taken from trash sites. He’d patched them together with plastic bags he melted into place. It was rainproof, mostly. I’d smeared it with mud so it wouldn’t look like something anyone would want. After all the work Duncan had put into the structure, he’d hated that. But he understood. We weren’t strong enough to hold a Styrofoam shelter that looked good.

  That night, Duncan stared up at me with wet, red-rimmed eyes, and I was certain he wouldn’t live to see daybreak. I was just wishing he’d live till morning. He always seemed happier during the day, even though the weak sunlight showed all the scars in the Barrens from the gangs and the Trojan-Satop power plant meltdown.

  Me, I lived for the nights. That was when the shadows covered all the ugly, and neon lit up the places where the grifting was good. We were different, Duncan and me, and I wondered if it would have always been that way, even if we hadn’t been orphaned.

  I’d scrounged up cast-off bedding and coats to keep him warm, but the chills rolled through him like seismic tremors. He was little back then, hadn’t come into his growth yet. Not like he was later.

  “I don’t feel good,” he croaked. His thick black hair lay plastered to his head, and his skin looked pale as pizza soydough at a Stuffer Shack.

  “You don’t look good either.” I smiled, trying to make him think everything was gonna be okay. “And you smell even worse.” My voice almost quit on me then, cracking and sounding jagged.

  “Are you sick too?” Duncan shifted under the covers and squinted at me.

  There he was, dying, but still worrying about me. I wanted to grab him and shake some sense into him. But maybe I was just mad because he was gonna leave me. I tried to hang onto being mad at him, telling myself it would be better if he did die, because then I only had to look out for myself. He was just a mouth to feed.

  And that was when I realized I was starting to think like all those foster parents must have been thinking. I didn’t feel guilty, but I was shocked.

  I shook my head at him and made my voice work the way I wanted it to. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m still cold.” Duncan pulled his pile of dirty bedding and ragged coats up more, almost covering his head.

  I couldn’t build a fire because that would draw human predators, so I tucked him in a little tighter and told him he was gonna be okay. He believed me. The Croydons had taught me how to lie too, and I was good at it.

  Some days, I almost fooled myself.

  I got him some more water when he asked for it, and saw we only had a couple bottles left. I hoped they’d last till morning. I had some water purification tabs I’d lifted from a military surplus store, but nobody wanted to drink from the river if they could help it.

  After Duncan drank his fill, which wasn’t much, he went to sleep. I sat there in the shadows, staring at nothing, thinking I’d probably said the last words to him I’d ever say. I made myself stay beside him, even though I wanted to run as fast and as far away from him and this place as I could.

  I have to admit, I almost got weak enough to call Lone Star and ask for help. I didn’t because I wasn’t convinced they could—or even would—save him. Duncan was just gonna be another statistic in the Barrens. One that probably wouldn’t even be noticed by most people.

  And if he lived, he was only thirteen. He’d have to survive another five years in foster care.

  I didn’t think he could do it. Mostly, I didn’t want him to. I was gonna take care of him. Even if it meant burying him in the morning.

  So I sat there and made myself really small, just listening to him breathe, hearing the gurgle in his lungs that didn’t sound good at all.

  The thunder of a straining engine grew closer. Cars passed by over the bridge west of us, but most never came this way. These were practically on top of us. I sat there listening to them get nearer, then I heard sharp blasts over the motor noise that I knew were gunshots.

  Crawling to the entrance, I drew my combat knife from its sheath on my right thigh and looked out, hoping whatever was going on would pass us by. Duncan stirred only a little, but the fever had him now.

  Then tires screeched, metal crumpled, and lights danced crazily in the treetops on the west side of river. A motor growled in a sudden frenzy just before something slammed through the stone ramparts of the old bridge. Broken concrete rained down from above and a battered Ford Americar shot over the side, dropping four meters to the sloped riverbank and landing—somehow—right side up, hard enough to blow out all four tires.

  The driver fought the wheel, managing to dodge the big trees while plowing over several small ones. A ruby taillight gleamed in the da
rkness as it skidded to a stop, leaving deep ruts in the rain-soaked ground.

  Stunned, I sat there for a moment, thinking maybe some guy had got himself a skinful of booze or inhaled too much Cram and wrecked his car. But only for a moment. When you live like I did, you learned to seize any opportunity you came across.

  I ran to the car, watching through the rear window to make sure the driver wasn’t moving. I knew he was still in the car because his arm hung through the window. It just lay there.

  I resented the guy immediately. If he had a DocWagon account, a rescue team would be after him soon, probably already on their way. I’d have to move Duncan, carry him most likely, instead of letting him die in peace here.

  My blade in hand, I crept up to the window, planning to take whatever I could grab, then get Duncan and jet out of there. Instead, a floodlight flashed through the night from the bridge and lit up the car.

  Pressing myself against the crumpled side, clinging to the shadows because that was second nature to me even then, I looked back at the bridge and saw the second vehicle there.

  The Honda Spirit was a three-wheeled two-seater powered by an electric engine, which explained why I didn’t hear it. Its front wheel was smashed, and both headlights were shattered. A man crawled out of the wreckage and staggered to the driver’s side with a big flashlight in hand. He shook the driver but got no response, and when he took his hand back I could see blood staining it.

  He turned his attention toward the Americar and light from the Spirit’s interior revealed the black pistol in his hand. Taking aim, he followed the bridge wall, and stepped off onto the ground where it ended.

  I twisted and started to take off, but an arm roped around my neck and held me trapped. I tried to slash it with my knife, but my captor caught my wrist with the same hand. He was quick.

  Cold metal pressed into the side of my neck and I knew immediately what it was. I was shaking, I have to admit. It felt like my stomach was going to turn inside out. I’d been in fights, been cut up a few times, but I’d never had a pistol pressed into my neck before.

  I froze, waiting for the bullet, thinking I was going to die before Duncan did.

  “Turn around,” the driver whispered in my ear.

  I did, slowly, aware that the man who had climbed down from the bridge was coming closer.

  In the glow from the car’s instrument panel, I saw the driver. He was Asian, probably in his late thirties or early forties. It’s hard to tell with old people. His hair was short and dark, neatly kept, and he was freshly shaved, even at this late hour. He wore coveralls like a mechanic or a service industry wageslave.

  His almond eyes widened at me, like he was surprised. He also looked like he was a bit dazed. I didn’t smell any alcohol or chems on him.

  He jerked on his seatbelt, but it wouldn’t release. “Cut it, now.”

  Trembling, sure I was gonna get shot, I slashed the seatbelt and freed him just as the guy from the bridge started shooting through the back window. Instinctively, I dove for the shadows of the trees.

  The old man spun out of the car, no longer fumbling or dazed, and wheeled around, using the vehicle as cover. He fired twice, and blood misted from the other man’s head. The man fell and lay still.

  The old man ran to the other guy and put one more bullet through his head. Then he knelt and went through the man’s pockets.

  “Boy,” he called in a stern voice. “Come here.”

  I ignored him, thinking I’d take my chances with the shadows and the woods.

  He cursed in Cantonese. I didn’t speak the language, but I recognized some of the words. Then he walked to the lean-to under the bridge and stood over Duncan, his pistol aimed down.

  “Don’t!” I yelled. It was one thing for Duncan to die of sickness, but it was another for him to be shot. I couldn’t bear that.

  The old man held his pistol on Duncan a moment longer, then sighed and lowered his weapon. “Come here.”

  I hesitated only a moment. I figured the chances were good that the old man was going to kill me and Duncan both, but I couldn’t just let that happen. I clenched my knife and slowly walked over to him. He might shoot me in the head too, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “What is your name?” the old man asked.

  I told him.

  “And who is this?”

  “Duncan.” I paused, telling myself I wasn’t going to be scared, that I wasn’t going to beg for my life. But I would beg him not to shoot. “He’s sick. I think maybe he’s dying.”

  The old man stood there for a moment, his narrowed gaze flicking from Duncan to me. Then he holstered the pistol on his hip and bent down to pull the coats and bedding off Duncan. “Don’t just stand there. Help me.”

  I thought about stabbing him, wondering if I could kill him. Then I realized that he was trying to help Duncan, not hurt him. I sheathed my knife and helped pulled the coverings away.

  Duncan was covered in sweat and his eyes were rolling white. He was as limp as Old Fong’s noodles.

  Selecting the least ragged coat, the old man wrapped Duncan in it and picked him up. I knew he didn’t weigh much. We both barely qualified as skin and bones. Just didn’t get enough to eat. Ever.

  “Come.” Carrying Duncan in his arms, the old man walked toward the bridge,

  I followed, wondering what I was doing and how much trouble I was in.

  DocWagon and CrashCart hadn’t shown up, so I guessed none of them had medical coverage. I thought that was strange for the two dead men, because they were dressed in expensive clothing.

  The old man glanced down at me as we started walking down the road. “Don’t worry, boy. Your friend will be fine. I know someone who can help him.”

  He paused, as if considering what he was about to say next. “You saved my life tonight. Now I will save yours and your friend’s. I pay my debts. My name is Raymond Black.”

  Chapter 1

  Model Prisoner

  Cross Applied Technologies Correctional Center

  Montreal

  Republic of Quebec

  August 2056

  On my last day of lockdown, Warden Gustave “Big Gus” Cézanne called me out of my cellblock and gave me the long walk himself. Even for a troll, he was huge, with horns that would have done justice to the hood of a 1950s Cadillac, and he was proud of them. Freshly shined and spit-polished, those horns lay back along his head and curled back over his shoulders. There wasn’t much room along his upper lip between his broad, flat nose and his large mouth, but he covered it with a Fu Manchu mustache parted on both sides by the tusks growing up from his lower jaw.

  As always, he wore a gray suit with impact resistant underweave. He didn’t take chances with any prisoner, not even with the four armed guards that marched with us in two by two close protective formation.

  Big Gus stood almost three meters tall, and dwarfed me in height and bulk. He draped a thickly-muscled arm across my shoulders, making me sag forward a bit. It was the first time he’d ever touched me, and I managed to keep from shrugging him off. He liked to play lord of the manor.

  “Eight years, chummer,” Big Gus mused. “You’ve been a model prisoner. Gonna miss you.”

  I knew for a fact that not every released prisoner got this kind of treatment. While I was in on lockdown, I’d made the best use of my time. Prison is a school for shadowrunners, and I’d learned from the best among my peers. I’d worked out every chance I got, learned new ways to hack security systems, and trained in a few martial arts I hadn’t known when I’d gone down. I was in better shape now. Stronger. Faster. More disciplined.

  While I was stacking time, I’d done favors for organized crime bosses inside and outside lockup so I could keep enough credits on the books to eat healthy instead of getting stuck with the soy and krill swill they served in the cafeteria. I watched over different prisoners I was asked to provide protection for, and broke noses, fingers, and ribs of people who didn’t listen.

  I’d be
en one of the warden’s boys as well, earning a few extra privileges because I worked hard during provided work shifts. We made cheap circuit boards used in CATCo’s entertainment and multimedia brands. Cross Applied Technologies made cost-effective use of its captive labor force every chance it got. After a while, Big Gus had made me a team leader, which made my bodyguard and enforcer work even easier.

  “Though it pains me to say it,” I said, “I’m not gonna miss this place.”

  He laughed because he was good-natured about things. “Do yourself a favor. Make sure you don’t miss Montreal anytime soon, either. Or anything CATCo does. You get two strikes with us. Get caught on your third, they take you someplace quiet and park a bullet behind your ear.”

  I knew that. All the corps made prison sentences work for them. They locked people down, held a captive labor force to pawn low-level grunt work off on, and got a kickback from the government as well as tax breaks for housing the “dregs of society.” If taking and keeping prisoners wasn’t such a wiz deal, no shadowrunner would ever be taken alive by the corps.

  As it was, sec teams didn’t stress themselves over killing shadowrunners.

  On the other hand, corps needed shadowrunners like me. We were the off-the-books labor force they used for strikes against other corps. Intricate chess games were played daily between the big corps. A shadowrunner was a deniable asset who could headhunt and extract talented employees, change a profit and loss statement, and even impact the stock market under the right conditions. I knew that because I’d been part of those runs on occasion.

  In a few weeks, I might hear from a Mr. Johnson, also a deniable asset, who needed some work done. And CATCo might well be the entity that made that deal happen. The corps never forgot who you were—especially if you could still be useful to them.

  “You did good work while you were here,” Big Gus said as we reached the final gate.

  He offered his huge, rough hand, and I shook it, not because I wanted to or because it was polite, but because I knew as soon as I did, he’d have that gate raised.