>From: wyang@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu (William D Yang)
Subject: Nightrunner Investigations, chapter 3 (untitled)
Date: 21 Nov 91 19:39:28 GMT

Unsuprisingly, here comes Nightrunner Investigations chapter 3.  No, it doesn't
have a title.  What can I say?  I just can't figure out a good name for it.
Figure it's a precursor for Nightrunner Investigations chapter 4 (that one's
got a good title, too: Victims of Silent Truths).

I don't know -- seems to me this story's not really "morally ambiguous."
In fact, it almost sounds downright preachy.  Don't know if you'll like it
(don't know if -I- like it)... but it'll lead really nicely into part 4,
don'cha'know....

And, no, this really isn't supposed to start a political flamefest.

As always, let me know what you think.

.  .  .

The name's Black: John Black.  I'm a private eye: independently licensed
"heat-for-hire" doing those jobs that corps and cops alike would rather
have done by the light of the shadows in the dark of night.  The lost can
be found, the found can be lost... only 800 creds a day, plus reasonable
expenses.
.  .  .

Antonio Sarducci's private hospital was a silent place...  the smell of
antiseptic was strong in the air, a slight chill running through the
recirculating air.  I always hated hospitals -- damned places clottin' well
freak me out.  Not that I didn't have good reason to be, breaking into the
private med-center of the West Coast's Godfather, the man in charge of
mafia business....  But all I had to do was remember I was doing this for
Amber, and that kept me going.

My hand curled around the Fletcher's handle, the induction pad grinding
slightly as the Smartgun targetting system engaged, yellow circles moving
to possible targets.  Green numbers scrolled, distances to the nearest
centimeter as the number ten floated on the periphery in my sight.  The
chronometer moved every second, a constant reminder of the urgency of my
search.  Ahead, I could hear the beeping sound of medical monitors, as I
realized that my search was coming to an end.
.  .  .

Lisa O'Malley had called two days ago: she hadn't seen Amber for a week.
My ex-fiance hadn't been in to MatrixTechnologies for that long, as well...
there was talk of sending out Corporate Security to find her.  Since the
CorpSec wing tends to shoot first and then make sure the target was an
acceptable kill, I figured I had to find Amber before things got "out of
hand."  With my Predator and my Fletcher, I headed out to find my
ex-finace.

It hadn't taken me long to figure out Amber had been abducted: her car was
still at MatrixTechnologies.  Only a cursory search had turned up a torn
piece of organic cloth (something Amber always insisted on wearing); after
a few more minutes, I'd discovered scrapings of black synthleather in
several places near the car.  Four different tread patterns were visible in
grease smudges on the concrete... I recognised one as a bootprint usually worn
by members of a handfull of street gangs around the Plex.

I hit the streets, and listened for the word.  Didn't take too long, and didn't

take too many creds, to find out the Black Dragons had done a delivery job,
picking up a pretty wagemage....
It also didn't take too long to get the response I was looking for from the
thugs who'd done the deed.
. . .

"Nightrunner!"

I turned to see eight punks, clad in black leather.  They get younger every
year: four of the punks were literally children.  Four little kids, a
teenage woman, and three young men.  One of the clots was wearing a white
scarf -- a scarf I'd given to Amber as a gift.  Nobody ever said street
punks were smart.

My voice crawled out of my throat:  "Who wants to know, chummers?"

Yellow circles began moving behind my eyes: two snipers were on the roof to
my left.  A third was on the second floor to my right.  Eleven to one: they
must've figured they had good odds.  Like I said, nobody ever said street
punks were smart.

"We the Black Dragons:  you want us, you got us."  Kid had a touch of a
Suburban accent underneath that Sprawlspeak.

My face curled into a snarl as I barked my question: "Who hired you to
kidnap Amber Stevenson?"

The lead punk stepped forward, walking towards me.  He was an arms-length
away when he whispered "You ain't findin' out nuttin from the Black
Dragons, chummer."

Red lights flickered in my eyesight -- target on my right had leveled a
barrel on me.  I had to make my move.

My fist flew, the fiber-optic wires that had replaced my nerves curling as
my muscles expanded and contracted, crushing the lead punk's nose and
knocking him to the ground.  I spun, my modified Predator out of its
concealed shoulder harness.  A blue triangle found its way to the thug on
my right.  A bark from the muzzle of my gun heralded the end of his life.

I rolled across the ground as the pavement was riddled with automatic
gunfire.  The blue triangles flew across the rooftop: the angel of death
again blew his horn through the muzzle of the Predator as two men died.
Knives and chains struck out, landing solidly on my armored jacket.  No
penetration.

I grunted as two more gunshots ended two more lives.  The kids ran at the
first shot, leaving only a battered leader and a frightened teenaged girl
crying in the street.

"Maybe," I whispered to the battered punk, "you didn't hear me correctly,
chummer.  I asked `who hired you to kidnap Amber Stevenson.`"

The bleeding nose and mouth of the thug parted, whispering through blood
and loose teeth: "I ain't sayin' nothin'."

"Have it your way, punk."

"No!"  The crying girl screamed.

I pointed my Predator at his face and watched the blue triangle center
between his eyes.

"NO!!!," the crying girl screamed, "It was a Johnson!  Don't kill my Billy!"

"Tell me about it."
.  .  .

She told me about how a "Mr. Johnson" with a heavy italian accent had hired
the gang to kidnap a woman.  From the description, it sounded like he was
working for the Sarducci family -- an offshoot of the New York mafia,
trying to re-take some of the organized crime on the west coast.  Antonio
Sarducci, the Seattle Godfather, had built a medcenter on the north side
of town, and it sounded like Amber had been taken there.

It wasn't hard to break into the hospital after I'd passed the outside
security.  As I walked the silent halls, my nervousness rose.  I raised my
Flechette pistol, the smartgun spilling distances as the blue triangle
centered itself wherever my pistol pointed.  I could hear the beeping and
hissing of machines ahead, and I could feel that Amber was through the
door.

I forced the door open, and walked into an office.  Sitting behind the desk
was a man who could only be Antonio Sarducci.  Two bodyguards made up his
flanks, and to the side I could see Amber, sleeping on a gurney.  Machines
and wires were strapped all over her, running to a huge bank of life-sustaining

machines.
"Good evening, Mr. Black.  You can put the pistol away; we've been waiting
for you," Sarducci explained.

"What the clot have you done to her?"

"Mr. Black, I'm sure you'll agree that everyone has a right to live.  I'm
merely exercising that right for my daughter....  You see, she has got a
rare condition -- Ghelrik's Disease.  Her body lacks the ability to create a
certain kind of energy necessary for the mind to remain balanced.  Magiks, such

as the ones Ms. Stevenson practices, bleed this energy...   but only powerful
mages create enough to harness.  My last mage died an unexpected death in a
shootout with a Seoulpa ring.  I had to find a new source, and Ms. Stevenson
happened to be easily accessable.  She's been sedated, but your fiance is
unharmed.  I simply require her continued presence until a new mage can be
found and hired.
"I assure you, Mr. Black, that Ms. Stevenson is in very little danger -- I'm
simply harnessing some of the magical energies that naturally come out of
her.  Is that too much to ask, to save my daughter's life?"

Targetting circles appeared on the two bodyguards' chests, I could see they
were dermally plated and were half-buried in vat-grown muscles.  It wasn't
going to do me any good to fire at them in here -- there was no way the
Fletcher could go through dermal plate.  But then, I wasn't only armed with
pistols.  I holstered my gun, moving slowly enough to indicate I wasn't
trying to be hostile.

"It's not too much to ask... but you didn't ask."

I twisted the fake knuckle on my right hand, releasing the moli-whip.
That's a nice piece of design: monofilament cord.  ARES figured out
how to manufacture it a couple'a years ago.  When attached to a weight,
monocord -- moli-whips -- can be swung... and it slices through just about
anything... including dermal plate.  With a swing of my arm, two bodyguards
died.  My left hand had the fletcher back out before Sarducci could move.

"It's not your choice to make -- it's Amber's.  You forced her choice,
chummer.  I'm forcing yours."

I fired one Flichette into Sarducci's shoulder -- the paralysis drug held
him in place as I laid an egg.  The grenade would go off in a few minutes...
just long enough to carry Amber away.

"Damn you, Black!  You're destroying my daughter!  You make an enemy today,
John Black -- the Family is against you!"
.  .  .

Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing; Amber burnt the clot out of me,
and making an enemy of a major crime syndicate didn't help me too much.  But
then, y'just can't clottin' afford to save lives by stealing liberties...
Freedom of choice is a bit more important than that....  You can live in chains
or you can die free.  Clottin' thing is that the drekkin' issue's are pretty
much exclusive.  You gotta choose between the two -- and forcing others to
choose as you do is wrong.  Sometimes its better to live like a slave,
sometimes its better to die liberated.  If you're willing to die so that
another person can live, that's fine; you just can't force me to do the same,
even if I'm the only one who can.

It's a dog-eat-dog world, here in the Shadows: sometimes you need to look out
f'yourself instead of lettin' others do it for you.  That's not only
responsibility and freedom...  that's life.

.  .  .

copyright (c) 1991 by William D. Yang.
.  .  .
--
William D. Yang         wyang@magnus.acs.ohio-state.edu         Yang.25@osu.edu
It's really -JUST- my opinion.         "State the obvious: it confuses people!"
"If you've gotta lurk, you may as well lurk with class... or, in my case,
Semi-demi-quasi-pseudo Class...."            [Quotes by Ray, SDQP-Lurker@Large]