"Technobabel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenson Stephen)

12

One of the duties of the shaman is to act as psycho-pomp and walker between the worlds. The shaman travels to the Underworld as well as the Upperworld for a variety of reasons; to escort the souls of the dead to their resting place and to seek wisdom from the spirits who live in the Underworld and bring it back to the people. Every shaman travels into the Underworld to fulfill the needs of the tribe and to maintain his or her power as a shaman by speaking with and learning from the spirits who dwell there. Although most Underworld journeys in modem times consist of astral travel to the metaplanes to draw on the wisdom to be learned there, modern shamans also undertake other kinds of underworld journeys every day of their so-called "mundane " lives. -from "Shamanic Traditions in the Twenty-first Century," a lecture given by Dr. Akiko Kano at Cal-Tech, California Free State, 2044 One of my duties as a shaman of the tribe is to travel to the Underworld of the Catacombs. Most of the people who want the secrets the Netwalkers have to sell live down there in the tunnels running beneath the city, some of them very old. The Catacombs date back to when the subway system in Boston was first being built and expanded. Over the years, many different tunnels were built. Subway tunnels, maintenance tunnels, sewer tunnels, and other conduits for daily necessities radiating under the streets of Boston, a whole world under the feet of the city.

Over the years some of the tunnels were lost, sealed off, or forgotten. New tunnels were build over, under, and around them, and the old remnants were found by street people needing shelter. The earthquake that shook the East Coast in 2005 leveled Manhattan, and also left many of the Boston tunnels ruined or abandoned, requiring the construction of new ones. The old tunnels and lost stations were declared unsafe and sealed off by the city government. They became home to refugees outside of the system, people like our tribe. Most of the tracks are above-ground in the Rox, too exposed to be of any use to the city now. So the tunnels into the Rox were among those abandoned. Nobody wants to come into the Rox, only to leave it, so there was no need to send trains along the tracks any more. The tunnels and the stations were left to the denizens of the Rox, just as were its buildings and streets. The crumbling concrete spans of old, above-ground train bridges are where we built and maintain the pirate satellite links to connect our tiny corner of the Matrix to the rest of the world. The ground-cable connections in the Rox are few and unreliable, damaged by the forces of nature and left to rot by the city workers who put them in place. Part of the work of our tribe is maintaining the web of fiber-optics stretching out from our territory and connecting us to the world. The satellite links give us the best Matrix access in the Rox, something valuable to the right people. One of the commodities the Netwalkers have to offer in trade for the things we need to survive and prosper. The tunnels are the underworld of the Rox. When the Awakening came, the tunnels got new inhabitants. First were the strange, magical creatures from the darkness under the earth. The tribe has stories and legends about these creatures of the underground: giant worms burrowing through solid rock, devil rats, and other scavengers who feast on the carrion in the tunnels. Even more frightening are the tales of intelligent creatures of the dark tunnels: vampires, ghosts, and ghouls, like Crawley, the one working with the Tamanous. The monsters of myth and legend are real and prey on the inhabitants of the Rox, hunting for the flesh, blood, and living essence they need to survive. Tensions in the city drove many of its metahumans underground to hide from those who hate and fear them simply for how they look. Communities of orks, trolls, and dwarfs developed in the Catacombs, and tribes of meta-human and human outcasts banded together to create their own homes down there. The Netwalkers live above-ground, not in the darkness of the tunnels, but we make trips down into the Catacombs to bargain with its inhabitants for supplies and other necessities in underground bazaars set up in the abandoned stations. In return, we trade our skills with hardware and software and the knowledge we have acquired. I accompany Papa Lo and others on trips into the Catacombs and learn quickly about how to bargain, talk, and trade with the tunnel-folk. The Undermarket is one of the places we visit often. The tunnels leading into the Rox are abandoned. The city government and the corporations can't be bothered with maintaining access to an area where they feel none is needed, so the Rox stations and tunnels are left to rust and decay. Taken over and transformed by the people of the Rox, they are our gateway into the underworld and the treasures of the Undermarket as well as a pathway into other parts of the plex, provided one is willing to brave the security guards watching the stations and tunnel entrances and the creatures living in the dark recesses of the underground, not to mention the danger of being caught in front of an oncoming subway train too far from a sheltering alcove. Many tunnel-dwellers die that way. Set up in one of the abandoned stations, the Market is a bazaar where different folk from the Rox and elsewhere in the city buy and sell, carrying on a whole economic system totally separate from the government and the corporations. Many of the merchants live in the tunnels themselves; orks, trolls, and stranger creatures cast aside by the rest of the world, forced to hide in the safety of the dark underground. The Market pays protection to gangs and tribes in the Rox, and we all recognize the importance of the Market and protect it. The Market is neutral ground, no trouble is allowed there. But trouble still happens from time to time. That is why warriors accompany us down into the tunnels to the Under-market. There are plenty of people in the underground desperate enough to break the law in hopes of obtaining something they can sell or use to make it through another day. These are the desperate and hopeless who have abandoned all tradition and understanding. "They are the real savages of the Rox, not us," Papa Lo says. Without tradition and honor, we are nothing. I know it is true, it is something I feel I have believed in for a long time. Shadowrunners come to the Market from time to time to get things they need. They are outcasts like we are, living outside the law and the shelter of the corporations and the government. Like us, they do not exist in the eyes of society. Like us, they live in the spaces abandoned by the rest of the world. Unlike us, they serve the corporations, working as their agents in the shadows to accomplish the work that is too dangerous to be carried out in the light. Shadowrunners are the corporations' warriors and agents, fighting a secret war most people never even know about, provided the runners do their jobs well. I encounter as many Shadowrunners in the Matrix as I do in the Market, if not more. The Matrix is very important to Shadowrunners, since it is where the corporations store their valuable information. If we can acquire the data, it is worth something. We are in the tunnels one day when the trouble begins. I have been going to the Market long enough for Papa Lo and the tribal elders to trust me to go it alone. I am the oldest of the shamans, which gives me the right and the duty to take on more responsibility. A small party of warriors accompanies me when I speak to the merchants and bargain for the supplies the tribe needs. We have some useful information, security codes and diagrams acquired from a Fuchi corporate system, that some people are interested in acquiring. We are promised food, medicine, and blankets for the data.

I am always taken in by the sights and sounds of the Market. Set up in a long-abandoned station of the subway, it has flat concrete platforms lining a deep trench where the trains once ran. The platforms are covered over with lean-to tents, small booths, counters, and other kiosks. Curtains and folding screens make temporary walls between the stalls and create shadowy nooks for talking business and making deals. Over the dark trench of the train tracks are laid heavy boards and pieces of construction plastic in an odd sort of web to create bridges across the tracks to the platform on the other side. The empty pit is used for storage or as a place to conduct quiet meetings under the makeshift bridges. Small scavengers scurry and squeak under the bridges as you cross over them. The place is filled with different people hawking their wares, examining the merchandise on sale, or conducting their own private business. Some live in the underground, others in the Rox, while a few are visitors from other parts of the city: shadowrunners handling their own affairs and, it is said, corporate agents and others doing business in the underground for the goods and services that can only be found there. The fixer I need to deal with for the trade is named Milo, a fat, pale dwarf who sweats even in the coolness of the tunnels. He reminds me of one of the little rodents that live down here: beady, dark eyes darting nervously from side to side at the slightest sound. Spotting him as soon as we enter the Marketplace, I make my way toward him, followed by my entourage of tribal warriors. We cross the rusting metal stream of the rails on a wobbly wooden bridge of pallets to Mile's small kiosk. A folding wooden pegboard behind him holds some weapons, tools, and computer hardware. None of it works, of course. This is only the showroom. Milo is careful to keep his valuable goods stashed in safe places: hidey-holes in the tunnels of the underground or elsewhere in the Rox, I don't know where for sure. "Hoi, Babel," the dwarf says as I approach the booth. He's sitting on a tall stool cleaning a pistol, a Colt Man-hunter, with an oily rag. The huge gun is nearly the length of Milo's forearm. He smiles to reveal a row of yellowed teeth peeking through his ragged brown beard. "Hoi, Milo. I have the data you asked for. It wasn't easy to come by, either." "Of course not. If it was, I wouldn't have asked you to get it." I smile at the compliment. "Flattery will get you nowhere," I say. Milo's smile broadens and he gives a hearty laugh. "Can't blame a chummer for trying. Don't worry, the goods are all set as we agreed. As soon as I verify the data's good, I'll send word out to begin moving things along." I nod and reach into my synthdenim vest to withdraw an optical chip. I lay it on the counter with my palm over it, then slide it toward Milo before lifting my hand away. The dwarf picks up the chip slowly, not wanting to appear too eager. He pulls a battered chip-reader from under the counter and slots the chip. The reader's drive unit whirs a bit as the lasers read the optical data off the chip, and it scrolls across the small display screen. Milo's brow furrows and he scrolls through the data, giving an occasional "hmmm" deep in his throat. The warriors have fanned out and remain alert for any signs of trouble. I don't expect any. Milo deals fairly with us. "Data looks good," the dwarf says, pulling a cloth from his pocket to mop his sodden brow and brush aside a few dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead. "You'll get the goods right away." I smile and nod. "A pleasure doing business with you." Just as I turn to leave, Milo clears his throat. "Babel?" I stop and turn back toward him. "Yes?" I ask. "This might be the last deal I can cut for a little while. Things have been going on in the underground, seems like something big might be going down and, well, I don't want to get caught in the middle, so I'm playing it careful for a while." "What's going down?" The dwarf has my full attention. I haven't heard anything about this. Milo shakes his head. "Can't say for sure, but you should tell Papa Lo I told you things could get… busy around here. He should know." I nod. Milo, like most fixers, lives off his complex network of connections. He probably knows people involved in what is going on in the shadows and can't reveal anything about their activities. At the same time, by passing on a warning to Papa Lo and the Netwalkers, he might curry additional favor in the future, should everything work out. "I'll tell Papa you said so." Milo nods and goes back to cleaning the Manhunter. The dwarf's announcement of trouble brewing in the underground and the Boston shadows has its effect on our party. On our way out of the Market, I have a strong feeling of being watched and I tell the warriors to keep alert. They are already on edge. Even so, we are nearly taken by surprise when surrounded by a group of hideous and twisted figures coming out of a side tunnel. They carry different weapons. Some have blades or clubs, others just bent and twisted pieces of metal with spikes and sharp edges. The warriors close in a ring around me as one of the dark figures steps out of the shadows and smiles at me, revealing a mouth full of sharp yellow teeth. "Remember me, meat?" the ghoul says, waving the stump of his right arm. The hand I sliced off has been replaced with a barbed hook gleaming dully in the tunnel-light. "Someone wants to see you," he sneers. "Take them." The tunnel-dwellers howl and charge at us. There is a loud crack and a flash of blue light as Ricardo strikes out with his stun-baton, sending a powerful jolt of electricity through one of the onrushing ghouls. It drops to the dirty concrete floor of the tunnel, gasping for breath as one of its companions, a huge ghoul covered in bony lumps of armor, leaps in and stabs Ricardo with a long spear of bent metal. The stun baton flashes with a crack and the scent of ozone. The ghoul howls in anger, twisting on the metal spear. Ricardo screams in agony and drops to the ground, red blood pumping from his chest. The other warriors use their weapons: shock batons and

knives for the most part. The melee is too confused and the ghouls too numerous for them to use the few guns we have without risking hitting each other in the dark and crowded tunnel. The ghouls outnumber us at least three to one and they are quickly overwhelming the warriors. I see one of the others go down under three ghouls who bear him to the ground and rip the weapon from his hands. His name is Joshua, and he paints some of the best designs of the Net-walkers' totem spirits. But I don't have time to find out if he is alive or dead. I feel the same cold feeling in the depths of my spirit from the night when I was taken by the Tamanous, and the ghoul's words echo in my mind: the meat is always best when it's fresh. Then a ghoul conies at me, snarling and hissing like a wild animal. The monofilament-edged razor snaps out from my forearm, and I slash at the onrushing thing in a blur of movement. The tip of the blade rips across its face, parting flesh and showing white bone. The ghoul shrieks and falls to one side, clutching its torn face. Another just as quickly comes at me and I slash at it, but not quite fast enough. The ghoul's filthy claws rake across my side, leaving a trail of pain behind them. The light armor in my vest protects me from the worst of it, but the force of the blow puts me off balance. That's when Crawley decides to make his move. He lunges forward with a slash of his hook-hand, and I back-peddle out of the way as it makes an arc through the air near where my stomach was. "What do you want?" I ask as Crawley and I circle each other, each looking for an opening. He only snarls and bares his teeth, like a maddened animal. My mind races, looking for an explanation for the attack while I try to defend myself. Is Crawley just looking for revenge? He said someone "wanted to see me." The other ghoul steps in at me again and a jab of my blade keeps him at bay. I hear one of the other warriors cry out in agony and the sickening sound of splintering bone. The noise makes me break one of the cardinal rules taught to me by Hunter: I look toward the sound and away from my opponent. Only for a split-second, but that's long enough. A wiry body crashes into me and bears us both to the ground, pinning my arms. I struggle to bring my arm-spur to bear against Crawley, but I don't have the leverage this time. He knows to avoid it now. The cold concrete floor comes up in a rush and the wind is knocked out of me with a crack, leaving my sore lungs gasping for breath. Something hard and metal hits the side of my head, snapping it to the side. I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. I look up to see the savage death-mask of Crawley's face leering above me, lips curled back from his sharp teeth. "Goodnight, meat," he whispers as he raises his remaining fist. It comes down on me and then everything fades and goes black, like a computer switched off. Shutdown.