Don't know what FTCTW is? Click Here to join the revolution. This installment of FTCTW's author is Mike.

Author's Commentary: OK—this is First Run, my Shadowrun novel. I wrote these first two chapters in an explosive fit of creativity in August and September of 2003. I have two thirds of the novel plotted out, but I have no idea how it ends quite yet.

I was inspired to do this by reading a few SR novels and realizing: “I can write better shit than this in my sleep.”

Then I found out that the novel rights were owned by the company making the clix figures and that they were only interested in material relating to that line. Well, crap. And now of course, SR has moved on to fourth edition, and I’d have to rewrite a bunch of the plot to make it fit now.

Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

First Run : By Mike

PROLOGUE

Tradejack knelt by the door and examined the lock. A rapid mental command activated the Sung Multitaskor ChipJuke hanging from his belt. He felt his nerves relax as his High Noon Sharpshooter chip disconnected, and his custom built Lockmaster chip slotted into its place. Tradejack had left the stealth and athletics chips in place, opting to drop the pistol shillchip and rely on his own aim should an emergency arise.

With the Lockmaster engaged, Tradejack found his eyes picking out details and possibilities—a standard barrel bolt mechanical lock, maybe ten years old and clearly built for doors much heavier than this one. This lock would withstand over 2,000 kg of pressure—the door’s hinges would snap long before the bolt. At the same time, his fingers moved of their own accord, guided by the skill software in his Juke, pulling out the black softcase lockpick set. His hands nimbly and knowledgably plucked out tools that Jack’s conscious mind had no name for, but which he knew his hands and the Lockmaster had made good use of in the past.

Tradejack paused there and waited patiently for Skar. Skar was slumped against the wall by the locked door, his long limbs sprawled limply on the floor. His already pallid rough-gray complexion accentuated by his slack-jawed trance. His normally milky white eyes were closed now—his body an empty shell as his spirit danced off in astral space. Well, okay, he was probably hardly dancing. More than likely, his spirit was just on the other side of the door, ensuring that their target hadn’t moved and that no magical nasties were going to come creeping out of the woodwork.

Modan stood watch over Skar’s physical shell while he was out exploring the astral of this warehouse. Modan had her longblade in her left hand and an Ingram machine pistol in her right. The Ingram wouldn’t be much use if the security types here had any armor at all, but a hail of bullets provides good cover and distraction even when the bullets are small. It was the blade that would do Modan’s business in any case.

She was dressed all in black tonight—typical for a run—the tight sweater and pants fit well on her long lean elven frame. Tradejack admired the way her work clothes accentuated her hard lines and feminine curves. Even the harsh weaponry and the prominent ridges of the plasteel plates under her clothing could not detract from her beauty. A black half-mask covered the left side of her face, starting from her forehead above her right eyebrow and running diagonally across the bridge of her nose to her delicate jawline beneath her left ear. Tradejack even knew what that mask concealed, and it only made her more alluring. He found himself wondering yet again what it might be like if things could have been different between them—if he wasn’t such a damn doormat, and if she weren’t so consumed by the life she had lost. But wishes and five bucks would get you a good latte in this city.

As he brought his focus back to the task at hand, Tradejack noticed that one corner of his implanted Encephalon had been idly translating sonnets from English to Mandarin and back again as he thought of Modan. He had loaded the Mandarin software directly into his headware memory after hooking up with Modan. Despite the volume of wires and hardware hidden in her body, her code of conduct would not allow her to compromise her brain with a data- or chipjack. And in spite of her multitude of talents, she was amazingly monolingual.

The Mandarin he needed, but he couldn’t fathom why he still had a load of centuries old poetry cluttering up his head space. Fraggin sloppy is what it was. A quick mental command dumped the poetry files from memory and disentangled the Mandarin software from his conscious thought. The implanted Encephalon was one of Tradejack’s favorite toys. The bio-computer handily took care of menial background thinking and calculating for him, freeing up his conscious mind and senses to focus on the big picture. But when it wasn’t actively engaged, it had an annoying habit of trying to make sensible associations out of whatever data it could scrounge up from Tradejack’s senses and memory. Fascinating at times, but more often it just left him frustrated at not knowing what his mind was thinking.

Annoyed, Tradejack glanced at Skar’s still unconscious form. Frag—what was taking so long in there?

Jack willed his chronometer to activate, and the red angular numbers faded into view on the bottom edge of his field of vision. He activated elapsed time from his last marker… 18 seconds. Not really long at all then, but much longer than usual for Skar. He’d already done a full survey of the place before the team arrived on site, so this should have just been a matter of poking his astral head through the wall—so to speak.

As if on cue, Skar’s yellow eyes shot open. Tradejack was always amazed at the change in Skar’s body when his spirit returned to it. It wasn’t like waking up or regaining consciousness—or even like a decker unjacking from the Matrix. Those involved a gradual return of consciousness to the body as the mind realized where it was and began its takeover. Coming out of an astral trance was totally different—at least for Skar—one moment, he might as well be a corpse on the floor, and the next, he was totally engaged—eyes open, muscles ready, mind still going full speed. It was eerie.

“Twenty seconds, Skar,” Tradejack shot, “You’re slowing down in your old age.”

Skar grinned reflexively, showing off two jagged rows of pointed teeth. But there was no warmth behind the smile. “Sorry, Jack, I couldn’t pull myself away.” Skar shrugged a little, “I still don’t know what the hell that thing is. It’s clear as a bell on the astral, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s natural and looks like it’s alive, but it has no emotional or spiritual content—not even as much as a houseplant.”

Jack mulled it over, “Toxic?”

Skar didn’t have to think about his reply: “No. Not even close. I saw bugs back in Chicago, and you were with me when we hit that toxic out past O’Neill. This is nothing like either one.” Skar’s blind eyes turned to the door as he laid one gray hand on it. “I swear, Jack, I didn’t just assence it… I could feel it from where I stood. I would have had gooseflesh if I’d taken my flesh with me.”

Modan had been following the conversation through the translator earpiece secured behind her mask, and now sparing only a glance for her companions, she shot Jack a tense whispered question in Mandarin. Tradejack repeated the question for Skar’s benefit, “Can you tell anything more about the container it’s in? Are we gonna be able to haul it out?”

Skar’s hairless brow furrowed in frustration, “I think so. But technicals and processed stuff are tough for me on the astral—and this thing is both, so it almost could have been invisible. It’s heavy and over a meter high, and it’s highly insulated. I don’t think it’s bolted down though, so you may have brought the bag for nothing. I didn’t see anything shaped like cameras or sensors, but it’s so hard to tell anyway, and with the target being so intense…”

“How certain are you?”

Skar tipped his head with a small shrug, “Make it 85%.”

Modan mutely nodded her satisfaction at the answer as her headset translated for her. Jack announced, “That’ll have to do then.” Shifting his attention to the open air, Tradejack asked, “G? Are we still clear on the high end?”

Tradejack’s implanted radio buzzed immediately with Goliath’s answer, “Their network’s still dead as a doornail, boss. I’ve disabled the alarm on your lock and circumvented the ID requirement. You’re free to jimmy the mechanicals. I’ve got both eyes open for you, but there’s nothing in that room hardwired to their net, and no cameras for me to even look around with.” Skar and Modan both made eye contact with Tradejack, acknowledging that they had heard the reply.

Goliath was a good decker. A damn good one. Probably the best decker currently running the shadows on the Midwest coast. Tradejack had never met him in person—hell, Goliath might not even be a “him” at all for all Jack knew. He worked out of Omaha somewhere and had been running overhead with Tradejack for over a year. Jack trusted him implicitly. It was go time.

Finally ready, Tradejack turned to the locked door and set his Lockmaster to work. His fingers worked quickly. Jack concentrated on what his hands and eyes were doing for him, but it became quickly obvious that the lock would be relatively simple, and the Lockmaster would even do it without damaging the mechanism. With a dozen seconds left to the task, Tradejack distracted himself by running some neo-fractal equations through his brain’s implanted math processor—the boring cousin to his Encephalon.

And then the lock clicked open and the pretty renderings in his head dissolved as Skar reached to open the door.

The two seconds that immediately followed as the door opened and Tradejack found himself staring down the barrels of two medium caliber automatic rifles would haunt Jack for many years, playing over and over in his head, like his Encephalon with an unsolvable logic puzzle.

Just as the polished metal of two armed little tank drones came into sight and Jack’s mind registered what they were, Goliath began bellowing in his ear, “I’ve got radio incoming! IT’S A TRAP!” But of course it was too late. Modan’s reflexes had her in motion before Jack even thought to look for her. She was diving to Jack’s defense, but he knew there was no way she could be there in time to save him.

And then amazingly, the machine guns swiveled on their mounts and swung their aim to Skar. Modan scooped Jack up and tried to roll them both to cover. Skar’s unaugmented meat reflexes left him with no chance whatsoever, and Jack watched the bullets nearly tear him in half before the little tanks began to roll forward and train themselves again on Tradejack and Modan.

CHAPTER 1

“Where ya going, Scotty?” Britt’s changing voice was gravelly and thick. Orcish. More like Mom every day.

“Don’t call me that, Creep.” Being called Scotty didn’t really bother him any more, but the reaction to it was automatic. On autopilot, like so much of his life lately. “I’m meeting somebody.”

Britt’s fat human friend Dana chose that moment to chime in, “A girl?” She’s tried to act casual, stifling a nervous giggle. But her schoolgirl crush on her best friend’s older brother was clear on her smooth round face.

Scott pulled on his jacket—denim with a thick poly lining—September nights get cool in Nebraska. It was faded to the point of being nothing but dirt and gray, but it would keep him warm. “No Dana. My friend Jack just wants me to meet some people.”

Britt watched Scott’s feet as he headed for the door. Scott couldn’t see the conflicting emotions flicker across her face, but he heard it in her voice, “You think he’s got more work for you?” Her question was simple, but Scott heard so much pleading and accusation behind it. We gotta get the money from somewhere, Scott, but not if you’re gonna get hurt… or worse. She would never have said the words out loud, but Scott knew she thought them. Britt’s narrow blue eyes always took in more than she ever let on. At fourteen years old, Scott thought she might already be smarter than he’d ever be.

Scott turned to face his little sister before leaving. “I hope there’s some work to be had, Britty.” He met her eyes, and actually had to look up at her. Since her change, she had quickly outstripped her big brother in size. Heck, a little cash would go a long way to hooking her up with some new clothes. She’d already grown out of the few things she “borrowed” from Scott, but she was far from big enough yet to fit into any of Mom’s old stuff. He wanted to tell her it’d be all right. He wanted to tell her not to worry—he’d be careful. But Scott McIntyre didn’t say things like that. Instead he said, “And don’t tell Dad I’m looking for work. Just tell him I went out, and you don’t know when I’m coming home.”

He hurried out the front door into the hall before he was forced to meet Britt’s eyes again, or worse, before Dana said some new and foolish thing in an effort to impress Scott with her maturity. He was glad Britt had such a close friend and all, and he reminded himself over and over that she was only fourteen, but even still, just the sound of Dana’s voice made him cringe anymore.

Scott McIntyre hurried down the front steps of their cracker-box house, pushing through the crisp evening air, glad he had decided on the jacket and thankful for the nearly deserted streets. He had been planning what he might say if his dad got home before Scott could get away, but now it looked like he wouldn’t need his little speech. His dad was at the Snowline Pub knocking back a few with whoever he pounded nails with today. They’d fought already that morning, and Scott had no time for or interest in another round.

Over breakfast, Mack McIntyre had tried to convince Scott to come along with him for the day. “C’mon, Scotty,” the old man had said over his sludgy bowl of Cream O’ Soy, “O’Meara says she’s got a week’s worth of work available doing patch-up on the old Farley Bill tenements before the inspectors come through next month.” With a smug ‘stickin-it-to-the-man’ look, he popped another spoonful of hot soy into his wide toothy orcish mouth and fixed his bloodshot gaze on his all-too-human son, “Strictly off the books, she says. Certified sticks at the end of each day’s work.” His wide smile is impish and wicked, but his tired eyes show that his heart isn’t in it. Mack’s spoon clicks and clacks in his bowl as he scrapes up the last of his soy, “You can’t beat that, son. And it’s honest work.”

Scott flinched at that, unsure if his father was jabbing him for his recent employment, or just trying to reassure himself. Either way, he should have just let it go. He had plans already—maybe even a new job—but Scott had never been much of one for just letting go. And besides, he knew the old orc hated O’Meara as much as Scott himself did. “Dad, that bitch O’Meara is nothing but a racist cow. She’s got honest work for you all right… if you don’t mind getting pissed on.” He saw his dad’s eyes and realized that if ever there was a time to back off, it was now. But that realization faded as his mouth just kept moving. “Jesus, Pop—you put in twice the work of any elf or breeder out there, and even leavin’ out what she’s saving in taxes, you still ain’t getting half the pay of those union guys. She’s using you, Pop, and you’re just lazy enough to let her.”

“Watch it, boy.” Mack was wide awake now, his face florid. All the capillaries in his wide flat nose, burst through years of nights spent at the Snowline, now stood out an angry red on his flushed old man’s face.

“What? Tell me I’m wrong, old man. Tell me how it’s the recession that keeps you from workin’ regular. Tell me how it’s the racist union that don’t wanna give an orc a break.”

Mack lumbered to his feet as quickly as his hangover would let him, his wispy ginger hair dark with morning sweat and plastered in strings to his pale forehead. “Yeah, and what the hell would you know about it? You’ve crapped out on every damn job I ever got for you, you little shit. And now you play tough guy for pocket change, and you think you can tell your old man how the world works?” Unsteady and full of bluster, he towered head and shoulders above his human son. But Scott faced him as an equal—something he was becoming increasingly bold at of late.

“Do what you gotta do, Pop. But I’m telling you right now that I’ve got more pride than that. I can’t do it any more. I won’t.” Bold words, he thought to himself. If things fell through, he’d be eating those words a week from now.

“Suit yerself, Scotty. You’re gonna land your ass in jail just like yer precious buddy, Beryl. See if I come bail you out then once the Guard’s got ya. Teach you a proper lesson.”

By this point, Scott was walking away. They both knew he could still hear the old man, and they were both willing to pretend he couldn’t. It was like that a lot with Mack anymore, him letting it trail away because he’s too tired or too hung over or just too damn old to see an argument through to the end. It was better, Scott supposed, not having to worry about a fist flying at your ear every time your mouth ran long, but this was almost worse in it’s own way, seeing the old man with all his fire gone. A sad mud-spattered lion too long in his cage—not even looking up most times as clueless fat-faced human children pitched popcorn at his face.

No, thought Scott, stuffing his hands in the threadbare pockets of his second hand denim-poly, much better not to run into the old man tonight. Let him drink off half the day’s wages and stumble home on his own. Better for Scott to see him tomorrow. At least by then he’ll know if Jack’s job is for real. At least by then he’ll know how much pride he’s gotta choke down to look old Mack McIntyre in the eye again.