Logs for ShadowRN and Associated Mailing Lists

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 18 May 1999 01:01:58 +0100

Message no. 1 *****PRIVATE: Cholo
>>>>>[I acquired two newcomers. They appear eminently suitable for the
role. We might even consider working with them: they made a small name
for themselves in the UK.

+++++begin recording
The attractive woman regards herself critically in the mirror, ensuring her
appearance is satisfactory: adjusting her hair, then checking that her
necklace sits properly. The camera, it seems, is concealed in the pendant:
its wearer is a forgettably good-looking brunette in last season's Armante-
knockoff dress, complete with oversized shoulder bag. Something about
her jars... perhaps her shoulders and neck are too strongly built to be
conventionally attractive?

Satisfied, she leaves the powder room, makes her way to a table in the
small cafe. The waiter brings coffee and Danish pastries for three: she
sits, patiently waiting.

Almost on the stroke of six, two men walk into the cafe; one looks
around, scanning the faces of the other customers, the other goes to the
coffee bar and is pointed to the woman.

They're a strange pair: both smartly suited in dark wool with long
overcoats, both in their twenties, both human, neither even slightly
unattractive.. and yet they're very different.

One is just enough above average height to be called 'tall': the other must
stoop slightly to pass through the doorway.

The shorter man is pale-skinned, with blonde hair tied back in a simple,
short ponytail: the taller is also darker, and his black hair falls almost to
his waist.

The pale man is clearly Anglo: his dark companion is of indeterminate
race.

The darker man sees the woman and grins, obviously suddenly intent on
her: his companion registers her, continues to scan the cafe and the
street outside before moving towards the meeting.

"Gentlemen. I'm delighted to meet you." the woman greets them.

"Us too." the tall man replies. His muttered "she's delighted! I'm _well_
in
there!" to his friend probably wasn't intended to be recorded.

"Likewise." The blonde one nods, settling easily into one seat: his
companion drops happily into the other.

"You may call me Alba. How do you prefer to be addressed?" she adds.

"I'm Harold, this is Jules." The tall man replies affably, around a bite of
Danish.

"Holden, where _are_ your manners? The lady deserves more consideration
than that. I am Julian Hilary Clarke-Jervoise, and this is my associate,
Harold Holden." The young blonde man's accent is pure Home Counties,
compared to Harold's... Merseyside? Both British, then.

"Nevertheless, I prefer to remain simply Alba." The woman sounds like
she's smiling. "I have a task for you. Short, and apparently - deceptively
easy. I wish a few men killed. Two, perhaps three. At most four."

"Er. Killing people. That's not nice. In fact, it's illegal." Harold pauses from
finishing off his Danish pastry, washes it down with some coffee, looks
hopefully at his companion's plate. "Jules, you eating that or what?"

Jules pushes the plate towards Harold, who happily starts to devour the
second pastry. "Holden dislikes bloodshed. It brings... complications. Also,
being relative newcomers, we are less well equipped than we'd like."

"I can provide weapons. Keep them, lose them, as you see fit. As for
complications... your targets are fugitives from their home, and criminals
in the UCAS."

"Sounds too bloody familiar..."

"Quiet, Holden. We are _not_ fugitives. It's merely more convenient to be
elsewhere for a while." Jules remonstrates. "A little too much success back
home," he explains conspiratorially to Alba.

"A familiar sensation to me. Are you interested?"

Holden finishes wolfing Jules's Danish. "Oh... bugger. All right. Yeah,
sure."

Alba glances at Jules, who nods slightly. "Very well. In a few days, I will
contact you and we'll meet. I will give you the weapons, one-third of the
payment and full information on your targets. After you succeed you get
the rest. Satisfactory?"

"I suppose." Harold admits.

"Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen. I shall be in touch soon." Alba rises,
nods to both, leaves.

Outside, she adjusts an earpiece: the recorder is tapped into the
monitoring device she planted under the table.

"...think she's on the level?" Holden's Liverpool accent.

"I recorded the meeting. If she's police she blew her case - clear
entrapment." Clarke-Jervoise replies. "You can never be _sure_, but odds
seem to be she's genuine. I'll check the weapons she gives us carefully, of
course. But my instinct is, she's genuine and this is a real job."

"Well, yeah. That's another thing, Jules. We're going to _kill_ people. You
never killed anyone."

"True. But there's a first time for everything."

Harold sounds wary. "Sure. But killing someone... it's a big deal, Jules."

"Voice of experience, Holden?"

"...Yeah. I killed someone. Bar fight. He pulled a knife on me, I hit him in
the head with my cue, I hit him too hard and he died. It's really not nice
to live with something like that. I never killed anyone for money, maybe
that's easier. Look, Jules... if there's just two of them, I'll cover your
back, but I won't fire unless they're shooting at us." Holden sounds
genuinely apologetic, as well as firm. "Three, depends, but I don't want to
fire if I can help it. I don't even _like_ guns. If I don't shoot you can have
mine, it'll be clean. Well, cleanish."

"Acceptable, Holden. I'll take point, you cover my back, you hold fire.
Agreed?"

"Yeah. That's fine. Look, Jules..."

"You've killed before and you didn't enjoy it? You want to spare me that?
You're my friend and you want this to work out all right?"

"Yeah... that's about it. Yeah. Look, Jules, I know you're a trained soldier
and I know you sort of _want_ to do this. I'm just saying, be careful what
you ask for, 'cos after you do it you can't go back. I'm sure if you think it
through you'll be fine, I just want you to be okay."

"Harold, I would be quite lost without you. You are a true friend."

"Aw... Jules, shuddup, 's'not like that-" Holden sounds awkward-

"Which is why you won't interfere while I pursue the fair lady Alba."

"Hey! I saw her first!" Harold's uncertainty and dark mood seems to vanish
in an instant, burned away in a flame of outraged competitiveness.

"I believe she finds me much more to her taste than you?" Clarke-Jervoise
suggests, throwing fuel on the fire.

"That's 'cos you need glasses for them Action Man Eagle Eyes of yours. She
fancies _me_. I saw how she looked at me. She wants me big-time."

"She looked at you, like something the cat dragged in."

"No, _I_ dragged _you_ in!" Holden splutters, outraged.

"To a city with at least two other known tiger shapeshifters active in the
shadows. With luck we may be able to contact one or both. Perhaps even
the female?"

Holden grumbles. "knowing my luck she's already mating with the male
one..."

"Perhaps, but how are we to know until we try? In any case, you're no
longer living in fear of the Lord Protector's Office. Isn't that an
improvement?"

Alba disconnects the monitoring device, sends the radio signal that
releases the catalysts inside it: within an hour, the small chunk of plastic
will be a rubbery, sticky, mass resembling nothing so much as a wad of
gum.<They'll do. I can work with them> She chuckles to herself in Spanish.
<Let's hope they're at least competent.>
+++++end recording

It is time to leave this city and put the past behind us. Cut our ties and
escape. We sought vengeance, and we destroyed only ourselves.]<<<<<
-- Alba <01:01:35/05-18-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 18 May 1999 01:01:58 +0100

Message no. 2 *****PRIVATE: Cholo
>>>>>[I acquired two newcomers. They appear eminently suitable for the
role. We might even consider working with them: they made a small name
for themselves in the UK.

+++++begin recording
The attractive woman regards herself critically in the mirror, ensuring her
appearance is satisfactory: adjusting her hair, then checking that her
necklace sits properly. The camera, it seems, is concealed in the pendant:
its wearer is a forgettably good-looking brunette in last season's Armante-
knockoff dress, complete with oversized shoulder bag. Something about
her jars... perhaps her shoulders and neck are too strongly built to be
conventionally attractive?

Satisfied, she leaves the powder room, makes her way to a table in the
small cafe. The waiter brings coffee and Danish pastries for three: she
sits, patiently waiting.

Almost on the stroke of six, two men walk into the cafe; one looks
around, scanning the faces of the other customers, the other goes to the
coffee bar and is pointed to the woman.

They're a strange pair: both smartly suited in dark wool with long
overcoats, both in their twenties, both human, neither even slightly
unattractive.. and yet they're very different.

One is just enough above average height to be called 'tall': the other must
stoop slightly to pass through the doorway.

The shorter man is pale-skinned, with blonde hair tied back in a simple,
short ponytail: the taller is also darker, and his black hair falls almost to
his waist.

The pale man is clearly Anglo: his dark companion is of indeterminate
race.

The darker man sees the woman and grins, obviously suddenly intent on
her: his companion registers her, continues to scan the cafe and the
street outside before moving towards the meeting.

"Gentlemen. I'm delighted to meet you." the woman greets them.

"Us too." the tall man replies. His muttered "she's delighted! I'm _well_
in
there!" to his friend probably wasn't intended to be recorded.

"Likewise." The blonde one nods, settling easily into one seat: his
companion drops happily into the other.

"You may call me Alba. How do you prefer to be addressed?" she adds.

"I'm Harold, this is Jules." The tall man replies affably, around a bite of
Danish.

"Holden, where _are_ your manners? The lady deserves more consideration
than that. I am Julian Hilary Clarke-Jervoise, and this is my associate,
Harold Holden." The young blonde man's accent is pure Home Counties,
compared to Harold's... Merseyside? Both British, then.

"Nevertheless, I prefer to remain simply Alba." The woman sounds like
she's smiling. "I have a task for you. Short, and apparently - deceptively
easy. I wish a few men killed. Two, perhaps three. At most four."

"Er. Killing people. That's not nice. In fact, it's illegal." Harold pauses from
finishing off his Danish pastry, washes it down with some coffee, looks
hopefully at his companion's plate. "Jules, you eating that or what?"

Jules pushes the plate towards Harold, who happily starts to devour the
second pastry. "Holden dislikes bloodshed. It brings... complications. Also,
being relative newcomers, we are less well equipped than we'd like."

"I can provide weapons. Keep them, lose them, as you see fit. As for
complications... your targets are fugitives from their home, and criminals
in the UCAS."

"Sounds too bloody familiar..."

"Quiet, Holden. We are _not_ fugitives. It's merely more convenient to be
elsewhere for a while." Jules remonstrates. "A little too much success back
home," he explains conspiratorially to Alba.

"A familiar sensation to me. Are you interested?"

Holden finishes wolfing Jules's Danish. "Oh... bugger. All right. Yeah,
sure."

Alba glances at Jules, who nods slightly. "Very well. In a few days, I will
contact you and we'll meet. I will give you the weapons, one-third of the
payment and full information on your targets. After you succeed you get
the rest. Satisfactory?"

"I suppose." Harold admits.

"Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen. I shall be in touch soon." Alba rises,
nods to both, leaves.

Outside, she adjusts an earpiece: the recorder is tapped into the
monitoring device she planted under the table.

"...think she's on the level?" Holden's Liverpool accent.

"I recorded the meeting. If she's police she blew her case - clear
entrapment." Clarke-Jervoise replies. "You can never be _sure_, but odds
seem to be she's genuine. I'll check the weapons she gives us carefully, of
course. But my instinct is, she's genuine and this is a real job."

"Well, yeah. That's another thing, Jules. We're going to _kill_ people. You
never killed anyone."

"True. But there's a first time for everything."

Harold sounds wary. "Sure. But killing someone... it's a big deal, Jules."

"Voice of experience, Holden?"

"...Yeah. I killed someone. Bar fight. He pulled a knife on me, I hit him in
the head with my cue, I hit him too hard and he died. It's really not nice
to live with something like that. I never killed anyone for money, maybe
that's easier. Look, Jules... if there's just two of them, I'll cover your
back, but I won't fire unless they're shooting at us." Holden sounds
genuinely apologetic, as well as firm. "Three, depends, but I don't want to
fire if I can help it. I don't even _like_ guns. If I don't shoot you can have
mine, it'll be clean. Well, cleanish."

"Acceptable, Holden. I'll take point, you cover my back, you hold fire.
Agreed?"

"Yeah. That's fine. Look, Jules..."

"You've killed before and you didn't enjoy it? You want to spare me that?
You're my friend and you want this to work out all right?"

"Yeah... that's about it. Yeah. Look, Jules, I know you're a trained soldier
and I know you sort of _want_ to do this. I'm just saying, be careful what
you ask for, 'cos after you do it you can't go back. I'm sure if you think it
through you'll be fine, I just want you to be okay."

"Harold, I would be quite lost without you. You are a true friend."

"Aw... Jules, shuddup, 's'not like that-" Holden sounds awkward-

"Which is why you won't interfere while I pursue the fair lady Alba."

"Hey! I saw her first!" Harold's uncertainty and dark mood seems to vanish
in an instant, burned away in a flame of outraged competitiveness.

"I believe she finds me much more to her taste than you?" Clarke-Jervoise
suggests, throwing fuel on the fire.

"That's 'cos you need glasses for them Action Man Eagle Eyes of yours. She
fancies _me_. I saw how she looked at me. She wants me big-time."

"She looked at you, like something the cat dragged in."

"No, _I_ dragged _you_ in!" Holden splutters, outraged.

"To a city with at least two other known tiger shapeshifters active in the
shadows. With luck we may be able to contact one or both. Perhaps even
the female?"

Holden grumbles. "knowing my luck she's already mating with the male
one..."

"Perhaps, but how are we to know until we try? In any case, you're no
longer living in fear of the Lord Protector's Office. Isn't that an
improvement?"

Alba disconnects the monitoring device, sends the radio signal that
releases the catalysts inside it: within an hour, the small chunk of plastic
will be a rubbery, sticky, mass resembling nothing so much as a wad of
gum.<They'll do. I can work with them> She chuckles to herself in Spanish.
<Let's hope they're at least competent.>
+++++end recording

It is time to leave this city and put the past behind us. Cut our ties and
escape. We sought vengeance, and we destroyed only ourselves.]<<<<<
-- Alba <01:01:35/05-18-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 00:12:39 +0100

Message no. 3 *****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[You may know me, you may not.

I was a friend of Christian Mitchell, after he left government service.

I'm acquainted with the supposedly-late Jason Lynch.

I'm going after Don Seamus Malone. Vegas mobster. You know him, I
think.

I got a Fed backing me, I got a loose rein from my precinct captain, I got
a slush fund. We're in with a chance.

You want in? I can't offer you much by way of money or reward, except I
can do some wash-and-brushup on any Seattle law enforcement records
that might inconvenience you. But I got Quinn and Daniel and Harley with
me already.

Let me know how you decide.]<<<<<
-- Julianne <00:13:26/10-21-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:53:30 -0600

Message no. 4 ***** PRIVATE: Julianne
>>>>>[ Impressive name-dropping. However, name-dropping doesn't pay the
bills or resolve any problems. Figure, I've got nothing better to do at the
moment and it sounds like a challenge, so why don't you tell me your current
strategy and count me in.

I will ask another bored friend or two if they want in but I wouldn't get
your hopes up.

For the record, I have plans that I cannot get out of without significant
difficulties on the nights of the 30th and 31st. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:44:27/10-22-60>

***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ Got a challenging gig if you are interested? ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:45:32/10-22-60>

***** PRIVATE: The Mighty Quinn, Daniel
>>>>>[ So it appears that we are working together again. I look forward to
seeing you again in the real near future.

By the way, Zombie is throwing a pre-concert party at his pad on the 30th.
Mark and Zombie are going to split the music picking and it is going to be a
good chance to hear the new album prior to the concert on the 31st. Let me
know if you want details on where to show up. (And feel free to spread the
word to close friends -- Zombie doesn't wants hoards at his place, but a
comfortable close friend crowd is another matter entirely.) ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:49:05/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:55:21 -0600

Message no. 5 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ Challenging gig? I'm interested, but include two details. 1)
General nature of job. 2) Payscale. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <02:54:41/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:57:26 -0600

Message no. 6 ***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ Powerful, well-entrenched individual needs dealing with in a
permanent nature. Pay opportunity not so good. However, the team is a good
one and should make it a good experience. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:56:51/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:59:03 -0600

Message no. 7 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ A real shame the nuYen signs aren't behind this one. Guess I'll
have
to pass. I've got to hold my standards. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <02:58:26/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 20:00:44 -0600

Message no. 8 ***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ A shame your standards won't allow you take a pay cut for the
opportunity to get to know Quinn a little better. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:59:16/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 20:04:12 -0600

Message no. 9 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ Damn. That is a shame. However, unlike you, I have to continue
earning my living. I regret I'm still going to have to pass. Happy
hunting, and hopefully, I'll see you on the 31st. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <03:01:52/10-22-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 23 Oct 1999 10:12:09 +0100

Message no. 10 *****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[Glad to have you aboard.

I wouldn't worry too much about Halloween: right now I'm playing
intelligence gatherer. It'll be a while before we've got a target.

Meantime, drop by whenever you like. We're based out of >>address<<, an
old SIGA safehouse.]<<<<<
-- Julianne <10:09:34/10-23-60>

*****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[You on the team? There goes the neighbourhood... Oh, well. Should
be fun. Taking on a Vegas Mafia don. Suicidal, but fun.

I'll be there for the party, and I know a few others who'd like to show.
Jason and Lilith, Stephanie, probably Harley too. When and where?]<<<<<
-- The Mighty Quinn <10:11:34/10-23-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 23 Oct 1999 14:33:46 -0600

Message no. 11 ***** PRIVATE: Julianne
>>>>>[ Okay. Expect me around >>time<<. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <21:20:14/10-23-60>

***** PRIVATE: The Mighty Quinn
>>>>>[ See, based on the address that Julianne provided, I think the
neighborhood was already pretty well down in the gutters anyway. Figure my
presence won't really make matters all that worse.

Party starts around 8 and will probably go late into the night as Mark and
Zombie brush off their favorite Halloween tunes. Zombie's place is at
>>address<<. Other than Doomsday and Rachel, I'm not all that sure I know
who is going to show up. It very well may not be more than that. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <21:22:30/10-23-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 00:12:39 +0100

Message no. 12 *****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[You may know me, you may not.

I was a friend of Christian Mitchell, after he left government service.

I'm acquainted with the supposedly-late Jason Lynch.

I'm going after Don Seamus Malone. Vegas mobster. You know him, I
think.

I got a Fed backing me, I got a loose rein from my precinct captain, I got
a slush fund. We're in with a chance.

You want in? I can't offer you much by way of money or reward, except I
can do some wash-and-brushup on any Seattle law enforcement records
that might inconvenience you. But I got Quinn and Daniel and Harley with
me already.

Let me know how you decide.]<<<<<
-- Julianne <00:13:26/10-21-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:53:30 -0600

Message no. 13 ***** PRIVATE: Julianne
>>>>>[ Impressive name-dropping. However, name-dropping doesn't pay the
bills or resolve any problems. Figure, I've got nothing better to do at the
moment and it sounds like a challenge, so why don't you tell me your current
strategy and count me in.

I will ask another bored friend or two if they want in but I wouldn't get
your hopes up.

For the record, I have plans that I cannot get out of without significant
difficulties on the nights of the 30th and 31st. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:44:27/10-22-60>

***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ Got a challenging gig if you are interested? ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:45:32/10-22-60>

***** PRIVATE: The Mighty Quinn, Daniel
>>>>>[ So it appears that we are working together again. I look forward to
seeing you again in the real near future.

By the way, Zombie is throwing a pre-concert party at his pad on the 30th.
Mark and Zombie are going to split the music picking and it is going to be a
good chance to hear the new album prior to the concert on the 31st. Let me
know if you want details on where to show up. (And feel free to spread the
word to close friends -- Zombie doesn't wants hoards at his place, but a
comfortable close friend crowd is another matter entirely.) ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:49:05/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:55:21 -0600

Message no. 14 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ Challenging gig? I'm interested, but include two details. 1)
General nature of job. 2) Payscale. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <02:54:41/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:57:26 -0600

Message no. 15 ***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ Powerful, well-entrenched individual needs dealing with in a
permanent nature. Pay opportunity not so good. However, the team is a good
one and should make it a good experience. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:56:51/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 19:59:03 -0600

Message no. 16 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ A real shame the nuYen signs aren't behind this one. Guess I'll
have
to pass. I've got to hold my standards. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <02:58:26/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 20:00:44 -0600

Message no. 17 ***** PRIVATE: Deuce
>>>>>[ A shame your standards won't allow you take a pay cut for the
opportunity to get to know Quinn a little better. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <02:59:16/10-22-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 21 Oct 1999 20:04:12 -0600

Message no. 18 ***** PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[ Damn. That is a shame. However, unlike you, I have to continue
earning my living. I regret I'm still going to have to pass. Happy
hunting, and hopefully, I'll see you on the 31st. ]<<<<<
-- Deuce <03:01:52/10-22-60>

From:	Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 23 Oct 1999 10:12:09 +0100

Message no. 19 *****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[Glad to have you aboard.

I wouldn't worry too much about Halloween: right now I'm playing
intelligence gatherer. It'll be a while before we've got a target.

Meantime, drop by whenever you like. We're based out of >>address<<, an
old SIGA safehouse.]<<<<<
-- Julianne <10:09:34/10-23-60>

*****PRIVATE: Forged
>>>>>[You on the team? There goes the neighbourhood... Oh, well. Should
be fun. Taking on a Vegas Mafia don. Suicidal, but fun.

I'll be there for the party, and I know a few others who'd like to show.
Jason and Lilith, Stephanie, probably Harley too. When and where?]<<<<<
-- The Mighty Quinn <10:11:34/10-23-60>

From:	Michael Goldberg michael.goldberg3@********.att.net
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 23 Oct 1999 14:33:46 -0600

Message no. 20 ***** PRIVATE: Julianne
>>>>>[ Okay. Expect me around >>time<<. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <21:20:14/10-23-60>

***** PRIVATE: The Mighty Quinn
>>>>>[ See, based on the address that Julianne provided, I think the
neighborhood was already pretty well down in the gutters anyway. Figure my
presence won't really make matters all that worse.

Party starts around 8 and will probably go late into the night as Mark and
Zombie brush off their favorite Halloween tunes. Zombie's place is at
>>address<<. Other than Doomsday and Rachel, I'm not all that sure I know
who is going to show up. It very well may not be more than that. ]<<<<<
-- Forged <21:22:30/10-23-60>

From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Thu Feb 28 19:35:01 2002

Message no. 21 *****INTERNAL: VAdm J. Kowalski, SOCOM
>>>>>[Well... it went about like I expected. And not.

+++++begin video
The office looks painfully new and very recently redecorated. The
obligatory 'I Love Me!' wall with its collection of photographs and
souvenirs is partly blocked by two solid-looking security cabinets, he
smaller adorned with a '1.4S EXPLOSIVE' hazard sticker.

The desk is definitely second-hand, good-quality laminate that's seen
previous use. Behind it, in a comfortable chair, sits a tired-looking
man wearing a flight suit. He'd look Native American if his skin wasn't
so pale.

Across the desk is another tired man, this one in dirty Army battledress
utilities and as dark as his companion is pale.

"So, General, is this a job offer?" Lieutenant-Colonel Callins, of the
1/75th Rangers, asks.

"Nope. If this was an _offer_, I'd have to go through your detailer, and
if you turned the job down then you'd get some black mark bullshit about
how you turned down a prime Pentagon job just because you didn't want it
or we decided we couldn't work together. This is just a jarhead General
arrogantly demanding that you debrief me before you go home to spend
some time with your family."

Callins nods. "Someone's teaching you the rules."

"I'd like you to be my S-1. If you don't want the job, I don't want you
taking any shit for turning it down. I wouldn't want to work for you, so
I'll understand completely." Lynch shrugs. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead. Is there any coffee?"

"Inbound." Almost on cue, a middle-aged woman enters with a tray: two
mugs, a coffeepot sitting on a catalytic heater, and a jar of cream and
a small bowl of sugar. "Thanks, Ellie. Right on time."

"Should have been early, but our coffee machine tripped the breakers on
the socket again. I got Byrnes to hotwire it for me." Ellie says
apologetically. "That damn five-amp limit..."

"Hey, if we have to run a three-phase supply in, we will. I'm not
drinking that brown pond water from the vending machines, I want _real_
coffee." Callins, taking a sip of the coffee, coughs and stares at the
mug: then adds a generous slug of cream, stirs, and sips again with
enthusiasm.

"Second that, Lynch. This is *good* coffee. Of course, my judgement may
be screwy."

"Six weeks in the field up North will do that to you. Good exercise, by
the reports."

Callins shrugs. "Just like you requalified for land and carrier ops.
Except you just got missions opened to you, whereas I was promoted away
from what I wanted to do and what I did best. The promotion board
strikes, I get my silver chickens, and I have to hand my battalion over.
At least I'm passing on a drek-hot unit to Major Cannady. The 1/75th are
_tuned_."

"Enough that they held their own in a defensive mission against 42
Commando, Royal Marines, in a free-play field exercise." Lynch raises
his mug as if in a toast. "The British bootnecks were expecting to
trample you, instead they had to pin you and manoeuvre around you. Good
work. You can lead and command a battalion. I can't. I need you."

"You're the general, General." Callins sounds amused rather than hurt.

"First up, I'm a general because promoting me was the best way my
enemies had to hurt me, 'cause they couldn't find a way to shoot me."
Lynch says, more amused than hurt. "I'm _still_ a general because I can
do more good there than as a civilian. That doesn't mean I can run a
division, in fact I know and my bosses know I have trouble running a
company-size unit. I can't handle more than thirty or forty people
_well_. I shouldn't have been promoted past 1Lt, which was where I was
happy. And if I have to control more... I'll need a really good S-1 to
do the work so I can claim credit for it. Like you." Lynch pours himself
more coffee. "There are others I can use, but I'd like to have you work
for me."

"Even though I'm Army?"

"Especially because you're Army. I'm a Marine, Lilith's Air Force, Zach
and Toad are Navy, Emma and Byrnes are officially civilians. Byrnes used
to be Army, but try getting them to admit it now. Politics says my S-1
*has* to be Army, but I say my S-1 has to know his, her or its shit
backwards, forwards and sideways."

Callins nods. "And you still haven't approached my detailer?"

"Not yet. Here's the job description." Lynch hands Callins a stapled
sheaf of paper. Callins reads quickly.

"My God. You tailored this to me?"

"I got Emma and Byrnes and Lilith to write it, and Jane to sign off on
it. It's the perfect Pentagon tour for a combat soldier who wants to
climb the ladder while spending as much time as possible leading troops
and as little as possible tied up in administrivia. Like you, but not
just you. And to get that signoff, you have to work for me for two or
three years." Lynch leans back. "Look, you want it, you've got it.
Kowalski and Motors will lean on your detailer until they *beg* you to
take the job, and mark it down as a hardship tour. You don't want it,
walk away and this meeting never happened. I want you willing or not at
all. I can't do all this General crap by myself."

Callins smiles. Dirty hair, BDUs still crusted with mud in the creases,
and black-rimmed nails, he still sits tall. "Am I allowed to kick ass,
sir?"

"Someone gets in the way of your mission, Callins, you fold, staple,
spindle and mutilate them as necessary. If I tell you I want something
done, I'll also tell you how hard you can kick to get it done. If I
didn't trust you I wouldn't be selling you this job."

Callins finishes his coffee, puts the mug down. "Just one more question.
What's in those cabinets?"

"The big one? Two PSG-7s, six M-31s, two SPAS-12s, two M-257s, and
sixteen Predators, plus assorted magazines, holsters, slings, cleaning
kits. The small one, lots of small-arms ammunition. I don't expect us to
have to repel a terrorist attack on Fort Fumble, but I *do* note that
the nearest CT-qualified military unit is an hour away and it would be
nice to at least have a scratch team available."

"Okay." Callins nods. "Dress code?"

"You'll fit in fine as you are. Wash the cammies so they don't shed mud
when scratched, and make the scuffed dirty fucked-up boots into scuffed
black shiny mud-free fucked-up boots if you want less hassle in the
corridors, but service cammies are 'working dress' here. Cammies for the
Marines, flight suits or coveralls for the Air Force, BDUs for the Army,
poopie suits or cammies or undress khaki for the Navy. The squids always
have to cause trouble.

"Just don't smell so bad that people won't walk downwind of you. And
show your Army patches and Ranger tabs proudly, same as I make a big
deal about being qualified for Fourth Marine Force Recon. Sidearm's
optional if you want it. I do, most of us do, some don't, it's your
call. Any other questions?"

Callins looks around, then back at the main office. "Frag it. Can I
start in April?"

"You're owed the leave. Go have fun with your wife and kids." Lynch
waves at the door. "And... thanks."
+++++end video

I thought he'd refuse. Live and learn.

I've got a full staff, as of FY63.

I'm thinking in financial years instead of reality.

Could be worse, I guess. Still, seems I'm still a lightning rod... can't
place that 'Exiled' dude at all. Cultured and intelligent and educated,
but that's it... and I'm not sure who I went after that is still alive,
who fits that bill,

What the hell. Monitor, check, determine if it's some human-supremacist
university student or a real threat. Main problem right now seems to be
keeping the Elven Nation thugs and the Alamos 20,000 scum apart.

I'd say it was time to grow up, except I spent the last two weeks flying
fast jets off an aircraft carrier so I could renew my qualifications.

Hell with it... we're having fun.]<<<<<
-- Lynch <00:31:32/03-01-63>

From:	shadowtk@*********.com (Paul J. Adam)
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Fri Mar 1 18:45:01 2002

Message no. 22 *****INTERNAL: VAdm J Kowalski
>>>>>[First up, we need a better name. I know it was a rush job, but
'Executive Division' is just *horrible*, and it covers too much ground.
Makes it too easy to misuse.

Quinn suggested "Readiness Assessment Group". So we'd be permanently 'on
the rag'. Not good. And I've got something of a jones about clever
acronyms. How about "Fast Action Response Team"? Didn't think so.

Can't we just grab a unit number? A quick dig in the database suggested
that based on our size, flexibility and mission, we should be a Combat
Team - a nice flexible catchall for composite units of platoon to
brigade size. We'd be Combat Team 701, according to the computer. Still
abusable, but at least it says we're a *combat* unit.

We'll probably end up being nicknamed "Jason and the Argonauts" or "The
Lynch Mob", but I can live with that (the first unit I ever commanded
got the 'Lynch Mob' nick, and people were scared of us... okay, I was
fourteen, it was a low-rent merc unit and it was just a rifle squad, but
it felt good at the time)

Second: Callins is our S-1 as of April. We're up and running, So, what's
the job? What are we meant to *do*?]<<<<<
-- BGen J R W Lynch <23:21:46/03-01-63>
CO Executive Division
Special Operations Command

*****INTERNAL: BGen J R W Lynch, CO CT701
>>>>>[Concur completely on the name change. You want it, it's done. We
were in a hurry, so we kept it open. I said it wouldn't matter, David
bet me ten bucks it would... it hasn't gone far enough to cause trouble,
we can just scrub it as an interim.

Congratulations on getting Callins, but he probably doesn't hate you as
much as you think he does. Now you're up and running... the IG have
already asked me to do some checking. Something about units reporting
going from marginal class-3 to perfect class-1 readiness makes them
nervous and they trust you and the people you've got to tell the truth,
even if it's inconvenient.

SOCOM's also looking to check some unconventional warfare scenarios. The
stuff you're writing for your dissertation, in fact. Start thinking
about putting together as many irregulars as you can for a major
urban-warfare exercise to screw with current doctrine. Be a few months
yet, but Motors has persuaded me that we've got a bad case of arrogance
about how we can handle urban warfare.

Oh, yeah. That "Eye of Light and Darkness" stuff is funded.

And you are ordered, required and commanded to hunt, pin, destroy and
incinerate any bug hives you can identify.

Stick with your Shadowland contacts, or at least the ones you've got
left. You've pulled good data out of that forum, stay with it.

Plus you and your command team are the nearest we've got to a decent
_military_ CT team in DC: the Federal Police are good, but they're cops
not soliders.

Sound good? Be a month or two before it picks up, but it gives you time
to organise.

Or to take a break. Weren't you looking for some weird spare parts? Go
find them. It still takes time to get everyone together, briefed and
ready to work together, and I've got personnel weenies who can do that
job much better than you.]<<<<<
-- VAdm J Kowalski <23:39:46/03-01-63>
Special Operations Command

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 16 Nov 1996 12:22:03 +0000

Message no. 23 *****INTERNAL: SIGANet
>>>>>[TO: D J H Coppinger
Jason talked him into it. Here's the tape.

+++++begin video
"You!" Price glares at Lynch as he enters the cell: a soulless concrete
cube, the walls distempered a sickly yellow.

"Yeah, me. Surprised?"
"Come to gloat, Fed?"
"Sure. Got a few other reasons to be here, but partly I came to see how
the mighty are fallen."
"It'll be you here, one day." Price snarls. "You'll grok off too many
people, drek on the wrong guy's shoes. Some corp, maybe even your own
side, will grab you and just make you vanish."

"What, that's meant to be news?" Lynch laughs, lights a cigarette. Price
looks at the pack, then glances away.

"I mean, I spent a chunk of this year on the run from InterPol and
Aztlan. Came out ahead, too. Or at least, alive, and their ops got blown
to pieces while I didn't. Dead Leopards everywhere, dirty InterPol cops
dismissed or in jail, the business. I know the risks, I know the game,
and I'm good at playing it. I _like_ the game."

"You're wasting your time, though. My bosses will pull me out of here.
They'll get me a killer lawyer, I'll appeal-"

"Read this." Lynch hands him a newsfax. "Article nine. Before you ask,
sure, we could have faked it, but we didn't. Don't need to."

Price reads, aloud. "Price, whose trading account was deep in the red
from a series of bad deals... acting without authorisation... somehow
evaded internal safeguards... illegal diversion of corporate
resources... deplores the actions of this rogue? The BASTARDS! I make
them a hundred and thirty million of pure profit and they treat me like
this?"

"What did you expect? They got caught with their fingers in the cookie
jar. We grabbed you because you were the point man for the operation,
and we had enough to convict you." Lynch offers Price the pack, and
after a moment the financier takes one of the Marlboros: the merc tosses
him a lighter.

"When I die I'll go to heaven, I've served my time in Hell - Desert
War." Price uses the battered Zippo, hands it back. "So, you've been
around the block awhile. Which one?

"That one was just 'the Desert War', but I went back for Two and Three.
Anyway, Charles, while you were on the inside making them big money you
were a top-flight, valued asset. Now, though, you're an embarrasment and
a handy scapegoat. Your family just got demoted to a Grade Four three-
roomer in Auburn, your mistress was reassigned to some rising star in
the futures department, they even gave your car to someone else. They're
making like you never happened."

"So, you won. You got me. Happy?"
"Come on, Price, you know I wouldn't be here just to enjoy grinding your
face in the mud."

A long pause.

"So, what do you want from me?"

"You have two choices. Ten-year minimum working on a chain gang for the
Highways Department days, sleeping in six to a two-bunk cell nights. Or,
come and work for the Agency." Lynch taps ash off his Marlboro.

"What do I have to do?" You see naked hope in the financier's eyes.

"Poacher turned gamekeeper. We need analysts who understand all this
high-level financial crap. You got off on a couple of the charges, and
we really wanted to make those stick. The lesson's less effective if you
get partial acquittals." Lynch taps ash off his cigarette.

"You could just have told the jury the result you wanted."

"Believe it or not, we don't work that way. Word gets out. And if we
only wanted to shut you down, we could have killed you. It sends a
useful message. It makes people like you a little more cautious. But it
doesn't have the same impact as something like this, does it? This will
send out shock waves, much more so than you getting shot or blown up.
Never mind individuals being careful: Fuchi's doing some expensive
damage control, and more than a few other corporations are reining in
their 'rogue traders' in case they're next."

"Why not just nail the corp's balls to the wall?"

"If only we could." Lynch sighs. "But they can just cut you loose, make
you into a rogue. Neither you nor we can prove that anyone ever
authorised your little scams, or that the money went to Fuchi instead of
to your numbered accounts. No proof, so no case. And if you want to get
into a pissing match with an AAA megacorp, you had better have an
absolutely watertight case."

"It won't last long. Or change much. Could I have another cigarette?"

"Sure, here. You're right, we aren't changing the course of history. But
we are making a difference. A few thousand people are getting their
money back. There'll be a couple fewer such cases in the future, until
the lesson gets forgotten again. We may not save the world, but we put
out a few fires, pick up some trash, get a warm fuzzy glow of
achievement. Better than nothing."

"Kind of frustrating."

"Very." Lynch shrugs. "But it has its satisfactions."

"What's the deal for me?"

Lynch takes a deep breath. "Okay. You get an apartment in the Federal
Zone and sixty thousand nuyen a year - not exactly luxury, but enough to
be pretty comfortable. Your sentence is suspended, not cancelled; pretty
much any misconduct worse than a parking ticket will get you back behind
bars, full sentence, no chance of parole. You'll have to live with some
pretty intense scrutiny of your personal affairs, you're a convicted
fraudster and nobody's going to forget that. You get a spinal bomb and a
track signal implanted, because it'll be a long time before you're fully
trusted. Long hours, hard work, not many obvious rewards."

"But?"

"But, you're reasonably free. You get a new ID - one of ours - and
because we can follow you and cripple you anytime, we can give you a
fairly long leash: you're not a prisoner, you're paroled. You get a cube
in the Pentagon, some unusual workmates, some pretty damn interesting
work to do. Admit it, Charles, you preferred being in the investigative
branch at Fuchi. Catching thieves was more fun than stealing from third-
tier S&Ls."

"Yeah. It was. But what about my family?"

"If you want, we can get them out."

"Yeah. I want. I do care about them, you know."

"Good." Lynch nods. "We'll probably just cut a deal with Fuchi, no need
for any more commando-style crap. We let this slide, don't milk it for
advantage, they leave you alone and let your family join you. They push
it, we start throwing extradition warrants for your bosses. They'd
rather deal." He offers his hand, and after a moment the financier takes
it, shakes it. "Welcome to SIGA."
+++++end trideo

Davidovich made the deal to get his wife and daughter out. No real
problems: they did get a touch difficult about releasing them, but we
agreed to publicly accept that Price was operating outside their
supervision. Fuchi did try to leverage that into dodging some of the
compensation liability, but Davidovich squashed that at birth.

We did agree to pay medical expenses for the injured guard, but Lilith
and I coughed that up already from personal funds. Not too many hard
feelings, either. They crossed the line, they got caught, we didn't do
any damage grabbing Price, we let them off with a rap on the knuckles as
long as they put the money back, everyone saw the trader involved go
under and the buzz is out on the street that it _was_ official and Fuchi
just threw Price to the wolves when the heat came on, Jason and I maybe
owe them a favour.

A good few days' work. It's nice to deal with professionals, for a
change. How much more time do I need to waste on the Gruesome
Twosome?]<<<<<
-- 1Lt L R W Lynch
Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 5 May 1998 22:09:43 +0100

Message no. 24 *****PRIVATE: Farmer
>>>>>[I've been putting up a fight about losing assets, so I keep
getting footage of Reaper's recovery. He's doing well: getting his co-
ordination back, recovering his physical conditioning, and now he's
cleared back on the ranges he's been working out hard there too. Also,
Dr Ross is looking tired but happy in the mornings, or so I hear: he's
getting another form of workout there, it seems.

Some performance degradation, as you'd expect: six weeks of relative
inactivity, then some pretty serious wounds, major surgery, heroic
treatment, big-time magical mojo to put him back on his feet ASAP, and a
shedload of new cyber... but he's pulled back together well.

The attitude adjustment seems to have taken, too: his programming has
worked very well. If we can get him inside SIGA, we can permanently
spike their operations against us, and manipulate them into doing some
of our work for us. The best part is, he's so disgusted by the idea,
nobody will ever suspect he's our puppet...

We might want to deal with Kowalski at some point, though. Under her,
NSWC are too independent, asking too many questions. I left her little
fit of pique in at the end for reference.

+++++begin trideo
The camera drone hovers not too far from the gunman: he ignores it as it
bobs and weaves to observe his shooting. The firing point automatically
scores him, the screen beside him showing where every round went.

It's an outdoor range, on a pleasantly sunny day. The shooter, a tall,
lean man wearing unmarked black fatigues and combat harness, is firing a
suppressed HK227 on full-automatic, leaning into the recoil and
controlling the bursts well, changing magazines with a slick and
practiced grace before resuming his course of fire.

After several more magazines, he unloads and safes the weapon,
unslinging it and placing it carefully on the firing point: a typed
command on the range console, and he fast-draws his Guardian automatic
from its assault holster, begins engaging the targets with that. Again,
he controls the pistol's powerful recoil well, hitting the figure-11
targets in the chest: the Guardian's kick merely causing the rounds to
climb, usually putting the third round in the target's throat or head.

The drone spins to see two suited men and a Navy captain, walking
towards the shooter, who resolutely ignores them as he expends four
magazines for the Guardian, clears and safes it, and switches to a SIG-
Sauer automatic from a shoulder holster inside the harness. A backup
weapon, perhaps, with only one spare magazine: the black-clad man fires
off all thirty rounds, ten Mozambique drills (double-tap to the chest
and a followup to the head) at various ranges with an efficient,
accurate speed, before laying that aside too.

One of the suited men is removing his hearing protectors and beginning
to speak, as the shooter points his empty hand downrange, fingers
splayed, wrist cocked back. A sharp crack and a tongue of flame, and the
suit claps the earmuffs back on with a yelp. The Navy captain chuckles,
as the black-clad man fires three more shots from the weapon in his
right arm: from the recoil and the sheer volume of muzzle blast, it's
got to be a shotgun.

Still ignoring his visitors, the shooter closes down the range computer
(his score is impressive), and rolls up his sleeve. The drone skitters
closer, pausing only a few yards away.

"Lieutenant-Commander Mitchell?" the captain asks, as the gunman opens
the access port in his forearm, pumps his hand four times in a complex
gesture: with each such, a blue twenty-gauge shell drops clear.

"The same, Captain. How may I be of service?" Mitchell asks, loading a
fresh shell into the cybershotgun: the same gestures, rotating the
chamber for the next round, as he loads all four chambers and closes the
access. Buttoning his sleeve again, he finally pays his visitors proper
attention... well, he pays proper attention to the captain, anyway. The
suits might as well not exist to him.

Something about Mitchell's face is disurbing somehow, and it takes a few
seconds to realise that he neither blinks nor moves his eyes. Where most
people's eyes flicker around, interrogating objects of interest,
Mitchell's pale blue stare doesn't waver at all: like locking eyes with
a snake. Most cybereyes fake that slight movement, but Mitchell seems to
have deliberately disabled it. The captain seems undisturbed, the suits
- already discomfited by being so ignored - obviously are troubled.

"Commander, these gentlemen have some matters to discuss concerning your
next assignment." the captain says gently. Mitchell breaks off from
stowing his weapons and magazines in his range bag.

"I don't like the sound of that, Captain Kowalski. So, my request has
been ignored and I'm _not_ going back to Team Eleven?"

Kowalski sighs and shakes her head. "No, Commander, you aren't. You've
been requested by the Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency and you're
TDY to them as soon as you're fully recovered."

"Oh, wonderful." Mitchell's voice drips sarcasm. "I daresay you've
already made sure I can't just seperate from the Service. If I'd known I
was going to be sent to Coppinger and his circus, I'd have told you to
leave me in the goddamn wheelchair."

One of the suits breaks silence. "Commander Mitchell, this is an
excellent opportunity for you-"

"Oh, I'm sure it is!" Mitchell laughs savagely, carefully settling the
HK227 into its padded supports in the range bag. "Look at their record!
Look at who I'd be teamed with! A bunch of misfits, dropouts and weirdos
who haven't achieved a useful result in half a decade, and lose staff
with a fearful regularity. What do you expect me to do, shine by
comparison? Or do you think I actually _belong_ in that asylum?"

"Mitchell, you aren't aware of the whole story here." Kowalski says
sharply. "You want success? How does a Navy Cross sound? The guy you're
replacing won one, TS citation. His partner, who you'll be working with,
went one better, and they both even lived to receive the medals. Not
well publicised, but then we nearly lost everything inside the Beltway
to a terrorist biochem attack. SIGA stopped it and covered it up. Nobody
heard a damn thing."

"Jesus." Mitchell is surprised into silence.

"That's the calibre of the individuals you're being assigned to, Mister
Mitchell. Now, Lieutenant-Commander, are you going to accept this
assignment, or would you prefer perimeter security duty at Keflavik for
eighteen months?" Kowalski snaps.

"Do I have to like it?"

"No. You just have to fulfil your duties in a manner to do your service
and your country credit."

"Sir." Mitchell nods reluctantly. "Permission to withdraw, Captain?"
Kowalski nods, and Mitchell double-times away, apparently unconcerned by
the weight of his range bag. The drone watches him, then turns to the
trio still by the firing point: one of the suits is examining Mitchell's
scores.

"Exceptional shooting."

"He's still below his previous standard." Kowalski replies. "Which is
why he's not on active duty, and a reason he's in a foul mood. The
others should be obvious."

"Why is he so bitter about being assigned to SIGA?" the second suit
asks.

"I thought he summed it up nicely, Mr Walters. He lost his entire team
to an Aztlan ambush, and he's being denied a chance to get out and get
some payback. Instead he's been handed to Coppinger. SIGA are
unorthodox, their effectiveness has recently been severely compromised,
they've had a senior agent killed and they've taken a terrific drubbing
in Congress. The usual crap about death squads and shoot-to-kill
policies, to the point that they were kicked off the case they were
working and which got their agent killed. You can imagine what that did
for SIGA morale." Captain Kowalski begins walking back towards the range
control building, the suits following. She sounds tired. "The bad guys -
those Children of Thunda assholes from Seattle - assassinate one of
their few field agents, they're in the middle of responding, and blam,
the Hill pulls the plug and tells them to walk away from the case. Yeah,
I'd be happy too."

"So who's handling the CoT business now?" one of the suits asks with a
note of alarm.

"A multidisciplinary taskforce is being formed to discuss the issue and
propose a range of possible solutions to the problem, to be examined at
Committee level and voted on by Congress." Kowalski recites in a sing-
song voice.

"So it's just the FBI?"

"No, Representative Jenner, it's not even the FBI now. Their dedicated
units were disbanded last month. They're making do as best they can, but
this is somewhat outside the FBI's normal field."

"In other words, _nobody's_ co-ordinating the action against CoT?"

"That's right." Kowalski buttons her uniform coat against a sudden gust
of cooler air. "You guys on the Hill didn't like any of the responses,
decided everything was either ineffective or too violent, so now
nobody's willing to actually take action against the terrorists. It's
not career enhancing, it seems, everyone who tries ends up dead or
disbanded. Morale's suffering very slightly."

Jenner pales. "But - with no co-ordinated response -"

"That organisation could pretty much do as it pleases. Yes. And they
are. I'm led to believe the main constraint on their operations is
currently street-level illegals."

"Shadowrunners?" Walters asks, incredulous.

"So I hear. _We_ certainly aren't achieving jack shit. We've got a four-
figure body count and rising, we're sitting back and leaving the pursuit
to illegal black operatives, and you wonder why people get contemptuous
of us." Captain Kowalski kicks at a tuft of grass that had bothered
nobody, sending stems tumbling in the freshening breeze. "We've got
maniacs slaughtering civilians, and what do we do? Disband the forces
that got result, and pass the job to careerist assholes like Mado and
von Drexler."

"I've found both those gentlemen to be-" Jennings says stiffly.

"Save it for someone who cares, Henry. Von Drexler's high-speed low-drag
riding his job to a political appointment, and Mado couldn't make a
decision if his life depended on it. Look at the action group he's
nominated: you've got _everyone_ in there. Military, FBI, DEA, NSA, CIA,
DIA, it's just Goddamned alphabet soup.

"If nothing happens, he can blame their internecine squabbles for the
lack of progress. If it goes wrong, he can hang it on one of the group
members, say the FBI or the politicians insisted on some clause that
screwed things up. If it succeeds, it's a ticket to success and his
second star. Can't lose. If he does nothing, he can't screw up. "

"And you're not bitter at being passed over for flag, Captain, and that
isn't colouring your judgement?" Jennings asks.

"No, it isn't. I knew this was going to be my last job, and up-or-out
doesn't apply in NSWC. Plus, I'm an opinionated divorcee with a
scandalous personal life, and I _like_ this posting. If I made rear-
admiral I'd have to leave, they'd give me Recruiting Command or a Naval
Training Centre or a job in the Sealift Administration. No chance of
another special-ops billet, and I don't have sea time, so I'd park my
flag in a window seat and do a job I hated until I finished my thirty."
Kowalski laughs. "No, I don't _want_ to make Admiral, and I have trouble
understanding those who obsess about flag rank."

The drone follows them past Range Control to the parking lot, where a
MPUV and a government Elite wait. Jennings sighs. "So, Captain, your
assessment of the state of our operations still stands?"

"It surely does. SOCOM is thoroughly penetrated, Mitchell's last
operation proves that beyond doubt. Their supposedly covert insertion
was ambushed by a Goddamn company of Jaguar Guard! We were lucky to get
even Mitchell back, and we lost four locals and some skilled indies.
NSWC is getting worse, we can't guarantee security. SIGA may be the only
outfit left that _isn't_ funnelling data directly to the opposition."
Kowalski runs fingers through her grey hair. "Hell with it all, Henry.
Mitchell's got his assignment, Coppinger's people need the help, and
something's got to improve soon. It has to."
+++++end trideo

She wishes.

Reconsidering, it might be better to leave Kowalski in place. She
doesn't know anything apart from the obvious... yet.]<<<<<
-- Harrow <17:40:32/05-05-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Sat, 9 May 1998 16:37:23 +0100

Message no. 25 *****INTERNAL: Rusanov's Rebels (Archive)
>>>>>[Who knows, we might make this one work.

+++++begin video
A secure-looking gate, set in a high double fence. The air is heavy with
ash, though the ground is relatively clean of it. Two low concrete
bunkers sit, one inside and one outside the gate, guarding it with a
quiet menace, and a tank (an old T-95, externally well restored) sits in
the middle of a traffic circle outside the gate to form an effective
barrier against ramming.

The outer bunker has an annexe, walled with smoked glass, attached to
its back. The military harshness is softened somewhat by the slowly
spreading greenery, planted around the fortifications: the shrubs and
bushes sparse enough to be no obstacle to IR or radar, and no cover
against defensive fire, but they soften the steel and concrete and make
visitors feel less like intruders.

The camera - in someone's helmet? - approaches the inner pedestrian
gate, which hisses open: walking the dozen yards to the outer gate,
which demands a swipe from an ID card before allowing passage.

The glass annexe turns out to be a waiting room: comfortable chairs, a
coffee machine, an information terminal that's currently showing an
infomercial about Rusanov's Rebels. Griffyn rises to his feet, as the
door opens, and his face splits into a smile.

"Stephanie! I didn't know you'd come and get me yourself!"

"Well, you don't think I'd let anyone else just wander up to you and say
'walk this way', do you?" Stephanie suggests, as she embraces Griffyn,
nuzzling her face into the side of his neck with a very feline gesture:
scentmarking a mate, perhaps. "Come on inside. You weren't waiting too
long?"

"No, only a few minutes. I'm really sorry about your father, Stephanie,
I know how you felt about him."

"I don't think he's dead." Stephanie says brightly: hard to tell if she
believes herself or not. "I don't believe a silly stupid missile could
get Daddy just like that. He faked it all and he's hiding and he's fine
and he's going to come back, but he can't just yet or all the nastiness
will just start up again, and he can't tell anyone he's alive for the
same reason. So it's all right, isn't it?" The last with a note of
almost pleading hope.

Griffyn changes the subject quickly. "I was wondering, why the combat
gear?"

Stephanie, safely distracted, pats a holstered weapon. "We're still on
alert. CoT have some nasty toys, they've got hold of some mortars from
somewhere and they've used them on the Easy Eight and Haven and some
other places, and there's not a lot we can do about it because you can
fire a dozen rounds from five klicks out and from inside a van and be
off and moving before the first bomb hits, we do it to bad guys all the
time except we use APC conversions instead of vans, so we weren't
surprised when the bad guys started doing it back, except they didn't go
for us yet and we never did catch the ones who shot at the Easy Eight,
but luckily it's got a false roof because she rebuilt the place
expecting Humanis terrorists to try to blow it up and our sappers had
fun reinforcing it all and so it wasn't too bad, but Haven was a nasty,
I don't think those were just the 81s they fired at Easy, from the
damage I'd guess some of them were Soltam 160-mikes, that's a big brute
of a mortar and a serious piece of ordnance and they were really lucky
they had all that magic to protect them because one of those would have
punched through the protection and exploded inside the building and then
_adios muchachos_, except they're big and heavy and you'd need to hide
one in a semi-trailer and they aren't very mobile and Puyallup's quiet
enough that we might see it, where Redmond's so busy you can hide all
sorts of stuff in there." As she speaks, she links her arm in Griffyn's,
leads him back through the gates.

It appears that Griffyn is well used to Stephanie's flat-out style of
conversation. "So, what was it that Colonel Rusanov had in mind for me?
He said there was something coming that was very well suited to my
talents, whatever that might mean, but he also said he didn't want to
discuss it over an open line. Spook stuff?"

"Absolutely. Ever been to Amazonia?" Stephanie opens the door of a
Scarab parked behind the inner bunker, climbs inside and starts up the
compact 4x4: an advantage of a military base is that you safely leave
doors unlocked and keys in the ignition.

"Not in a while. So, _that's_ what he wants me for..."

"_Us_ for, I'm going too. I'm sort of surplus to requirements at the
moment, after we do the evaluations and choose our new tanks it's going
to be a while before we even get simulators for them, and a lot of the
crews have rotated and we're retiring the LAV-105s because we can't
uparmour them enough, so while when we get back into the heavy armour
business I'll be really busy, I don't have a unit to command at the
moment and I've learned to be pretty good at jungle stuff and besides,
once I'm running a full armour company I won't have so much time to go
out of area on my own and I want to have fun while I still can."
Stephanie backs out of the parking slot, squeaks the tyres as she
accelerates. Yeager Field is over a mile square, and while the main gate
may eventually adjoin some important structure, at the moment that wide
sweep of the land is still roughly-bulldozed rubble where derelict
housing once stood, cut through by concrete hardstanding and taxiways
for the base's runways. The route to the main base area involves
swinging around the perimeter road, a good mile and a half, and now you
see why Stephanie brought the ugly little Scarab rather than suggesting
she and Griffyn walk.

"What are those bunkers?" Griff asks, pointing to a row of five wide,
low, angular structures, and several more half-built. The walls seem to
be foot-thick, steel-reinforced concrete.

"Hardened aircraft shelters. Well, sort of semi-hard. They won't stop a
direct hit from anything much bigger than artillery, but then we
shouldn't ever be getting bombed with PGMs here, and if we are then
we've really got trouble. The helicopters and the Hercs are just
revetted, they're cheaper and easier to replace, but the fighters are a
lot cheaper to insure if they're in HAS."

"Insurance for jet fighters?"

"Of course?" Stephanie sounds surprised that Griffyn doesn't know.
"We're not covered for battle losses, naturally, that would be silly and
way too expensive, but theft, fire, terrorism, all that accidental and
non-combat loss stuff is insured against. That's one reason we wouldn't
go extraterritorial, because if we were then terrorism would be 'act of
war' against us and the insurers wouldn't pay up but because we're UCAS
it isn't." The Scarab is approaching the more nearly complete end of the
base, a pleasant cluster of buildings: the greenery planted here taking
hold well. Serried rows of horseshoe-shaped revetments shelter
helicopters, most in protective covers that make them look eerily like
insect larvae. A group of fifty or sixty uniformed Rebels are marching
around the parade ground, not quite in step and with the awkwardness of
new recruits.

Stephanie swings the vehicle past all this, past the first row of MT
sheds, and parks in a row of other grey-camouflaged vehicles, ranging
from motorbikes to four glowering APCs: the ready-use motor pool. "Okay,
come and meet Uncle Sasha." she says, shutting the engine down and
checking the turret's safety pins are still in place: three red REMOVE
BEFORE FIRING flags show where the Vanquisher minigun's ammo feed,
traverse and power supply are all locked.

"I thought he was your grandfather? And if his name is Sergei, how come
everyone calls him Sasha?" Griffyn asks, closing his door and obviously
resisting the ingrained habit of locking it.

"Step-grandfather, he married Grandma Reba, and he is Sergei, but he's
Uncle Sasha to just about everyone in the unit. And his name works the
way it does because he's Russian, by birth, so he's Sergei Nikolaievich
Rusanov because he's Nikolai Ily'ich Rusanov's son, the middle names a
patroni - patronymu - " Stephanie pauses, and carefully enunciates -
"pat-ron-y-mic. If you're being formal, then you'd call him Colonel
Rusanov, and if he was someone you knew, like an acquaintance or someone
you worked with or whatever, then you'd call him Sergei Nikolaievich,
but if you're his friend or his family then he's Sasha, it's a sort of
affectionate contraction of his name, like his father would be Kolya or
Pyotr becomes Petya or Pavel becomes Pasha."

"That's another question. What's a Russian doing here in the UCAS
running a mercenary battalion?"

"Well, if you want to be picky, he's not ethnic Russian, he's Estonian-
Finnish, his father was originally from Vyborg and his mother came from
from near Tallinn, they met when they were both living in St Petersburg,
he was born there and that's where he grew up after they died, in a
State orphanage which he didn't like much, especially not being Elven."

"He's Elven?" Griffyn sounds surprised.

"I know, he's pretty big and powerful for an Elf, isn't he, but he is.
His ears aren't pointy because some of the other orphans fixed them for
him when he wasn't quite fifteen, they ambushed him in the showers and
cut the points off his ears with a straight razor, and then they were
going to rape him except he was bleeding so much he was all slippery and
he got loose and the razor off them and persuaded them to go away. Well,
persuaded one to die, actually. So he couldn't stay there because he'd
killed one and cut the other up really badly, and he was too young to
get a job because it's all regulated over there, but he'd only been
defending himself and so they couldn't send him to prison for that, and
the best idea they could come up with was to let him join the Army
young, and he got sent... well, it's his story, you'd better ask him.
But he ended up defecting, about ten years ago, and about the only thing
he was qualified for was being a mercenary, and he thought a lot of the
mercenary commanders out there were total tossers so he set up himself
as a commander and got a couple of squads together, and then it grew to
be a full platoon, and then it was a company with some vehicles and
mortars and a helicopter, and then he married Grandma who's very rich
and very clever about business even if she is a bit mad, and with a good
rep and more money to invest he started having trouble with too many
people wanting to join, which was sort of a nice problem to have really,
and he ended up growing to battalion strength which he says is as big as
he can sensibly get because more than that and he can't remember who
everyone is."

This explanation has taken the two shapeshifters to the doors of one
building: inside, it's comfortably decorated, though still with that
indefinable air of newness. The receptionist nods at Stephanie as she
passes, and hands Griffyn a visitor's badge: they climb the central
staircase, up to the top floor (the door to the level above is labelled
'Squash Courts - Use At Own Risk - Danger of Death!').

"You can get killed for playing racketball?"

"No, silly, it's a false roof like at the Easy Eight, to stop mortar
bombs. But we're use the dead space underneath it to play in, until we
get the sports centre built. So if we get mortared and you get killed in
there nobody can say you weren't warned." This building seems to be
administration, this floor mostly open-plan, busy with civilian and
military staff who seem unconcerned by Stephanie and her companion as
they pass through, towards the offices at the end: she knocks, and a
voice invites her in.

Rusanov's office is simply furnished and decorated: the furniture is the
same good-quality generic officeware that everyone else seems to have,
the main decorations are handsome paintings of battles of old. The
Charge of the Scots Greys, nightfall at Prokhorova, the last stand of
Leonidas and his three hundred, the Krazny Oktyabr factory at
Stalingrad, can all be recognised.

Rusanov is coming out from behind his desk, a big man (six-four and at
least two-fifty pounds, built like a linebacker) in the same grey
fatigues as Stephanie, though his uniform blouse is unbuttoned enough to
show a blue-and-white striped undershirt. Two other women occupy the
office at the moment: one is a forgettably attractive blonde woman, also
in Rebels uniform, three stars on her green collar tabs. The other you
don't recognise, though she bears some resemblance to both Stephanie and
Lilith (except Lilith's nearly a foot taller): only about five feet two
or thereabouts, bright red hair and wide, deep-blue eyes, with flawless
skin and beautiful bone structure.

Rusanov embraces Stephanie, turns to shake Griffyn's hand. "So, you are
friend of Stephanie. I hear stories of you, now I am glad to meet you."
His English is clear, but retains a definite accent. "This is my new
intelligence officer, Captain Emily Dane -"

"_Emily_? Eurrgh! That's a _girly_ name!" Stephanie says with a look of
horror. "Couldn't you pick something better?"

"Easy to remember a new name if it's not too far from the old one." Emma
- now Emily - smiles. "It's only for the paperwork anyway."

"_Spasibo_. And this is my wife, the Contessa Rebbekah Trevilla
Rusanov."

"Call me Reba, please." The small and remarkably beautiful redhead
smiles up at Griffyn. "You know, I'm so pleased to see Stephanie has
such fine taste in men-"

"Behave yourself, Grandma!" That brings a look of horror from Reba and a
chuckle from Griffyn.

"So, you're a tiger too, Mr Griffyn?" Reba hastily asks. "Quite amazing,
that makes three I know now."

"Who's the third?"

"Lilith's father. Such a nice gentleman. I didn't even know at the time,
I just found him so handsome and so charming, he quite stole my heart...
as well as my, er, virtue." Reba looks misty-eyed with memory. "But I
was young and foolish, and I married for money instead of love, but at
least I had his child to remind me of him-"

Stephanie says something lengthy and extremely caustic in Spanish, and
Reba looks shocked and goes crimson: Emma shows surprise and amusement,
Sasha covers his eyes and tries not to laugh.

"_Anyway_." Reba pulls herself together valiantly, though it's obvious
someone just detonated a landmine under her train of thought. "He was a
shapeshifter too, I later discovered, and so was our child. It simply
seems amazing to me, that I know three weretigers and they're all
Siberian -"

"It's not amazing at all, Grandma, it's history because we came over the
land bridge from Eurasia, and the Bengals had too far to walk to get
over here so any indiginous weretigers you find in North America are
almost always Siberians. Don't you know _anything_?"

"Well, yes, dear, just not a great deal about tiger folklore." Reba
recovers admirably, and her husband takes over.

"Anyway, I did not drag you all way to Puyallup to hear my family
arguing. We have matter to deal with, requiring specialist skills, and
your assistance will be of great help."

"Is Stephanie going?" Griffyn asks.

"Yes."

"Then so am I. What am I doing?"

"Captain Dane?" Sasha cedes the floor to Emma.

"Griffyn, I'm not sure how much of this story you know, so I'm going to
start at the beginning. And there's a great deal to hear, so it may
wander somewhat.

"Nearly twenty years ago, when Tir Taingire had developed their PAB
technology, the House was working triple shifts. Producing meticulously
programmed agents with carefully constructed false memories, superb
black-ops spies and assassins. One of their senior researchers escaped
to the UCAS with a fistful of chips and details of the process. He was
made welcome, his knowledge seen as a thing of great value, and assigned
to the Strategic Intelligence Gathering Agency."

You hadn't noticed Reba leave, but she's suddenly passing around a tray
of coffee and sandwiches. Emma takes a cup, sips, continues.

"SIGA's deputy director, Bartlett was already corrupt, suborned to his
his lust for power. He planned decades ahead, to the day when he would
be inaugurated as President of the UCAS, and he saw Doctor Narmohach as
his key to shortening those decades. Resources were made available. Test
subjects provided. Bartlett was made able to assassinate his Director
and take her place.

"And, for a while, SIGA used Narmohach's talents to carry out a campaign
of murder and replacement. In a terrorist atrocity leaving dozens dead,
some unrecognisable, one single person would be the target: their body
too mutilated to identify, a carefully-prepared double would present
with a head injury, an auto accident, a mugging. Short term memory loss
and confusion, of course, but they recovered, went back to their jobs.
Colonels, Congressional aides, journalists, all individuals placed low
enough to escape scrutiny, who could be helped, guided, herded into
success and promotion. So that at least a few of Bartlett's puppets
would eventually hold high office, and boost him the way he so
discreetly boosted them."

"I heard a little about this. It came apart, correct?"

"Yes. One of his agents - he collected the lost, the rejected, the
runaways, who would not be missed and could not be traced - broke her
conditioning. A hit she was assigned to went wrong, she fled, she was
found. The man who found her was a lover from years before, father of
the child she thought she'd lost.

"Her conditioning failed, her implanted memories broke down. She
remembered what she had done, and what had been done to her. Her
companion hid her while she recovered from that shock: and then, as
Bartlett's killers hunted them, they turned and fought. They didn't win,
of course. They merely survived, loudly. That was enough. Bartlett was
already under suspicion, questions were being asked, and this incident
sealed his fate. The strife that followed was messy and bloody. A
violent, if almost silent purging, a Month of the Long Knives. An
epidemic of accidental death, suicide and exotic disease, that left
Bartlett and most of his agents dead, SIGA gutted, and the Boy Scout
Coppinger at the helm of the remnant."

"And the Doctor got away?"

Emma laughs. "Of course. Not for him the role of leader, the highest and
largest target. He likes to work from behind the scenes, always with an
escape route planned. His was to Aztlan, where his real power base lay.

"And this is where I enter the picture, Griffyn. Lieutenant Esmeralda
Diaz, newly commissioned into the Aztlan Intelligence Service. A patriot
- no, a fanatic. I believed, with a religious intensity, in the historic
destiny of the Aztec race and its descendants: that we were fated to
rule the Americas, and sooner rather than later. That anything we did to
advance that goal was not only forgivable, but was praiseworthy. And I
was far from alone. During my first combat tour in the Yucatan, I was
contacted by the Planners."

"You got me there, too." Griffyn grins. "Who they?"

"Traitors to my country. The best example would be from Japan in the
1930s and 1940s, the 'double patriots' who considered that their loyalty
to nation and Emperor allowed them to ignore orders, plot treason, and
act illegally. The Planners are in similar vein. They have their own
policy, their own scheme. They plot to subvert the UCAS, place a puppet
at its head, and trap the Confederacy in a pincer between north and
south. Their agents have infiltrated the UCAS military and intelligence
services, they hold leverage on several key figures. They have
compromised a dozen operations in the Yucatan, almost cut off UCAS
support for the rebels there. That little war in the Yemen last year was
entirely their doing. These people are powerful.

"And, unlike the Children of Thunda - did you know the Planners first
used that term? The Royce Park monorail killings last September were
their work, and the first terrorist atrocity attributed to CoT? - they
are patient, and cautious. In two years they have lost only one agent...
two, if you count me. I believed in their cause for a while. I was a
fool." Emma smiles wryly.

"How did you go from being inside to being outside, then?"

"Their senior UCAS agent, the puppet they groom for power, the Farmer? I
was his mistress. I was assigned to monitor and control him. We saw an
opportunity to advance the plan and eliminate a threat: we had never
managed to place an agent inside SIGA, and Coppinger saw his duty as
hunting out our operations. A terrorist attack on Washington, pinned on
Maxim Arms - you'll remember relations were strained at the time - using
as an unexpected bonus an old bioweapon we stumbled across by pure luck.
It should have decapitated the UCAS leadership and left them embroiled
in a bloody and debilitating war with Maxim."

Griffyn asks "So, what went wrong?".

"Jason and Lilith Lynch, what else?" The blonde woman smiles ruefully at
Stephanie. "Your parents broke enough of the plan to interfere - with
minutes to spare, I'd add - and intercepted the launch platform,
defeating some rather ingenious precautions taken to prevent such. I was
badly wounded in the process. Just over a year ago, in fact." Emma rubs
her chest, as if remembering old pain. "I lived. I got off the ship. I
made my way to a safehouse, where the Doctor himself met me."

"To help you?"

"Oh, no. To burn out my mind, and implant some new personality. I had
failed, you see, and so my life - or at least my soul - was forfeit. He
had to heal me before he could begin the procedure, and he
underestimated my desperation. I escaped, faked my death, fled south and
hid among a mercenary unit. I thought about many things, I considered
many options. And now I've chosen. I intend to destroy the Doctor: with
him gone, the Planners will fall in his wake."

Emma pauses, and the room is silent for a long, long moment.

"What about their UCAS network? This Farmer guy?"

"Without the Doctor's support he and his network won't last six months.
He's a weak and proud man, and his agents are likewise. They are
followers, not leaders, and without guidance -"

"Never mind that, who _is_ he? Just tell me who he is and I'll go rip
his head off!" Stephanie jumps to her feet.

"No!" Emma snaps in return. "He's a pawn. Kill him and there will be a
replacement, one whose identity I _don't_ know. I know only _one_ of his
agents: even he doesn't know them all except by codeword. And I hear a
rumour that the Doctor has gained an agent even inside SIGA, while I was
hidden - why do you think we are discussing this here, and not in
Coppinger's office? If we are to kill this serpent, we must strike at
the head, not the tail."

"I don't like snakes." Stephanie grouses, reluctantly sitting back down.

"Good. Then help me destroy this one."

"How?" Griffyn asks. "I take it this is what the operation's about?"

"Yes, it is. In Ecuador, the mercenary unit I was hiding with, and who
Stephanie was attached to, destroyed one of their crime lords. We broke
Mateas' smuggling operation, then we attacked him in his lair and killed
him. It broke the team, but we did it. And when we checked his
records... I found he dealt slaves, to a name I recognised."

"Slaves?"

Emma pauses. "The Doctor has made alliances that are not of the wisest.
There, perhaps, is where my doubt began. You know Aztlan understood the
dangers of the insect spirits long before most others did. You know with
what good cause they are feared and hated. Yet the Doctor dealt with
them. With a hive in Chicago, who he supplied with hosts in exchange for
wealth. The mercenaries I hid among... I had planned to betray. They had
crossed that hive's queen, ruined a scheme of hers, and sought an
item that might have had great power against the invae. The Doctor
intended to trade that item and the mercenaries to the Black Queen. I
hid those parts of Twilight's Soul they found, and when I was fleeing I
told them the truth. Their part of it, at least. And they forgave my
deception, and gave me shelter."

"That still doesn't explain the significance of slaves."

"No, it doesn't. But his experiments - various forms of mind control,
some strange drugs, other things I was not encouraged to be curious
about - need test subjects, and many of them. Slaves are an easy way to
obtain such subjects. He also needs a place of safety in which to work:
the hinterlands of Amazonia are isolated, wild and unexplored, yet the
river allows communication, almost anything can be had at the coast for
the right price; and in the heart of the rainforest, even the Amazonian
government knows little of what goes on. I believe I have found his
stronghold." Emma lays a satellite photograph on the desk, and Sasha,
Griffyn and Stephanie all lean over to examine it. A bowl-shaped crater,
hundreds of yards wide, clear of the triple-canopy jungle, with an
ancient teocali at its exact centre.

"Around it, this." More views. Cleared forest, tilled fields, buildings
laid out in odd spiral patterns. Infrared views, showing warmth in the
buildings and the teocali, specks in the fields that could be people.
Half-metre commercial imagery, nothing fancy. "This is... here." A map,
the location marked: on the Black Amazon, in the heart of what used to
be northern Brazil.

Griffyn stares at the map. "No chance of going in by air, I presume."

"By river. Seven hundred miles up the Amazon, Griffyn. Two days, in even
a moderately fast boat." Emma's smile is mirthless. "If nothing goes
wrong, that is. I would hazard two weeks at least, to reach the area.
Then? We have to infiltrate, there will be too few of us to storm it. At
most a dozen, probably fewer: we can't use anything bigger than a
Commander on the river without drawing attention, and we can only
hotbunk so much. We don't know what we will find there, have no idea
what odds we oppose, and our reconnaisance is also our attack. Do you
feel like living forever, Griffyn?" Emma asks sardonically.

"Who else have we got?"

"Myself. Stephanie. A rigger and mechanic, for the boat - you know a
woman called Harley? There are several of Rusanov's troops who have the
skill and experience to come. We could still accept a few more, but we
have sufficient." Emma sighs. "You will be well paid, of course. This is
my vendetta, not yours. Are you interested?"

"I told you already, I'm in." Griffyn looks at the map, perhaps
imagining the hundreds of miles of hostile river.
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Captain Emily Dane <16:36:54/05-09-59>
Intelligence Officer
Rusanov's Rebels

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 01:21:44 +0100

Message no. 26 >>>>>[Wanted: skilled runners for a discreet theft.

Contact me privately for more details.]<<<<<
-- Combine <01:21:34/05-27-59>

From:	Jaimie Nicholson <jaimie.nicholson@********.OTAGO.AC.NZ>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 12:39:59 +1200

Message no. 27 *****PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[I'm listening. The main question is when you want it done, I'll be
performing an operation during the next week, so if you want it done fast
then I must apologise but I won't be able to help you.]<<<<<
-- Segen <18:38:03/05-26-59>

From:	"Mark A. Imbriaco" <mark.imbriaco@*****.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 26 May 1998 21:18:36 -0400

Message no. 28 ***** PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[ I find myself avaiable currently. Does your current list of
requirements match my skillset? ]<<<<<
-- Static <21:17:12/05-26-59>

***** PRIVATE: Lillith, Imp
>>>>>[ I have offered my services to Combine for the run he's trying
to hire out for. I'm assuming that you still want to keep an eye on him
and the rest of the Farm clan? ]<<<<<
-- Static <21:18:42/05-25-59>

From:	BigDaddy <bigdaddy@*****.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 26 May 1998 22:36:04 -0400

Message no. 29 *****PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[ Heard ya were lookin for some runners for a quick tuck and shuck. I
got plenty o'time in the biz. My credentials stand for themselves. Watch any trideo sports
over the last 8 yrs? Then ya should have seen me every Sunday knockin' the piss outta
those QB's. If not and you need a live demonstration contact me at >>Mail<< No
q's asked beyone the normal Johnson details. Set up the run and you can count on success,
I'll place my MVP trophies on it. ]<<<<<

--BigDaddy <22:34:55/05-27-59>

From:	Wildthing <twowolfe@*******.NET>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 13 May 1998 05:38:12 -0700

Message no. 30 *****Private: Combine
>>>>>[ How many runners are you looking for?]<<<<<
-- Juggler <01:48:34/05-28-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 21:26:36 +0100

Message no. 31 *****PRIVATE: Juggler
>>>>>[Enough to accomplish the task.

How many, with what skills, do you offer?]<<<<<
-- Combine <21:26:43/05-27-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 21:12:17 +0100

Message no. 32 *****PRIVATE: BigDaddy
>>>>>[Unfortunately, I am not a sports fan: but talent is talent.

I am setting up a road hijack, which needs to be accomplished as
discreetly as possible. The pay will be >>encrypted<<.

If you are interested, inform me; then contact Static, who will be
leading the run.]<<<<<
-- Combine <21:08:01/05-27-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 21:12:46 +0100

Message no. 33 *****PRIVATE: Static
>>>>>[My apologies: I would have contacted you privately and directly
had I known of your continued interest. Your demonstrated and
considerable skills will be of great value to this mission.

The task is relatively simple: I require a tanker shipment of
methylthiolphosphonoate be intercepted and diverted. I would prefer that
the task be achieved with as little attention as possible.

Pay for this task will be >>encrypted<<. A suitable shipment has been
identified as travelling on the 12th June. ]<<<<<
-- Combine <19:34:35/05-27-59>

*****PRIVATE: Static, Imp
>>>>>[By all means find out what he's up to. Don't get killed, and we'll
back you up as necessary.

Thank you, Angela.]<<<<<
-- Lilith <21:02:30/05-27-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 21:10:23 +0100

Message no. 34 *****PRIVATE: Segen
>>>>>[The timeframe is flexible enough to accomodate you, the task
required being due on the 12th June, though the planning for the mission
will be done during your other operation.

If you can accomodate this, then the offer remains open.]<<<<<
-- Combine <20:55:43/05-27-59>

From:	Jaimie Nicholson <jaimie.nicholson@********.OTAGO.AC.NZ>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 28 May 1998 12:33:08 +1200

Message no. 35 *****PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[Sounds fine. Let me know more.]<<<<<
-- Segen <16:14:01/05-27-59>

*****PRIVATE: Sharpe
>>>>>[You ready to leave? I'll want to go through a cold run with you a
few times, and maybe some target practice would be a good idea too.]<<<<<
-- Segen <16:17:11/05-27-59>

From:	BigDaddy <bigdaddy@*****.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 27 May 1998 23:24:47 -0400

Message no. 36 *****PRIVATE: Combine

>>>>>[I'm in although the amount is a lil small times are tuff. I'll get a
hold of Static ASAP.]<<<<<
-- BigDaddy <23:22:11/05-27-59>

*****PRIVATE: Static

>>>>>[Greetz bub, Combine sent me over for a lil shindig he's hosting, he
wanted addtional people over to help, so I offered my services. Gimme all the juicy
details.]<<<<<
-- BigDaddy <23:45:42/05-27-59>

From:	Wildthing <twowolfe@*******.NET>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Thu, 14 May 1998 14:16:08 -0700

Message no. 37 *****PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[ My Team currently has a Decker a few muscles and a mage
the muscle have many skills depending on the task needed]<<<<<
-- Juggler <21:26:43/05-27-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Fri, 29 May 1998 22:38:54 +0100

Message no. 38 *****PRIVATE: Juggler
CC: Static
>>>>>[Contact "Static" for details of the task: she is currently
the
leader for this mission.

She will choose which if any of you meet her requirements, and I will
arrange payment accordingly.]<<<<<
-- Combine <22:29:40/05-29-59>

From:	Wildthing <twowolfe@*******.NET>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Fri, 15 May 1998 09:04:45 -0700

Message no. 39 *****PRIVATE: Static

>>>>>[I was told to contact you for the mission info.]<<<<<
-- Juggler <12:01:40/05-30-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Sun, 31 May 1998 18:40:48 +0100

Message no. 40 *****PRIVATE: Segen
>>>>>[The run is a hijack, being led by a runner named Static. Contact
her privately: if she wishes you on her team, I will arrange
payment.]<<<<<
-- Combine <12:00:43/05-30-59>

From:	Jett <zmjett@*********.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Sun, 31 May 1998 18:28:53 -0400

Message no. 41 *****PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[Just got into the city. I'm looking for work, and this sounds like my
kind of job. I'll be contacting Static immediately: if you need to reach me my number is
>>>LTG<<<]<<<<<
--Jett <18:04:33/05-31-59>

*****PRIVATE: Static
>>>>>Hoi, got word that you've got a hijacking to pull. I just got into the
city from Cali Free, and I'm looking to hook up with a couple decent runs. I'm quiet,
experienced, and very flexible. If you could use a razorgirl/low level magic support, you
can reach me at >>>LTG<<<]<<<
--Jett <18:27:03/05-31-59>

From:	Jaimie Nicholson <jaimie.nicholson@********.OTAGO.AC.NZ>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Mon, 1 Jun 1998 12:26:03 +1200

Message no. 42 *****PRIVATE: Static
>>>>>[Been told to contact you. What are we hijacking?]<<<<<
-- Segen <18:22:37/05-30-59>

From:	Karl Low <kwil@*********.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Mon, 1 Jun 1998 14:00:23 -0600

Message no. 43 *****PRIVATE: Static
>>>>>[Person by the name of Combine referred me to you. Says you might have
use for a good rigger. If that's the case, fill me in.]<<<<<
-- Xenon Black <12:58:22/01-06-59>

From:	"Mark A. Imbriaco" <mark.imbriaco@*****.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Mon, 1 Jun 1998 20:49:25 -0400

Message no. 44 ***** PRIVATE: BigDaddy, Juggler, Jett, Segen, Xenon Black
>>>>>[ Planning session. Seattle at >>encrypted<< tomorrow
evening. The
session will begin promptly. If you are late, you are out. ]<<<<<
-- Static <20:28:41/06-01-59>

***** PRIVATE: Combine
>>>>>[ I have arranged a preliminary planning meeting for tomorrow
evening. I will know at that point whether we have enough personnel to
accomplish the mission. Please forward the full mission parameters as
soon as possible. ]<<<<<
-- Static <20:30:12/06-01-59>

From:	Wraith <wraith@************.COM>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Mon, 1 Jun 1998 23:18:10 -0500

Message no. 45 *****PRIVATE: Combine

>>>>>[Are you still looking for people for this job?]<<<<<

-- Black Fire <12:17:24/06-2-59>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <Shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Fri, 22 Jan 1999 00:39:55 +0000

Message no. 46 >>>>>[Wanted: experienced and cosmopolitan security personnel for
extended (6 months+) overseas contract. Cultural experience of the
Middle East essential. Rewards excellent.

Reply privately for more information.]<<<<<
-- Vane <00:39:37/01-22-60>

From:	"Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk>
Subject:	Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 23 Jul 1996 20:26:38 +0100

Message no. 47 >>>>>[Shadowrunners wanted for a medium-threat mission. Contact me
privately for more details.]<<<<<
-- Ploughshare <20:31:35/07-23-57>

From:	Craigtw1@***.com
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 23 Jul 1996 21:34:09 -0400

Message no. 48 *****PRIVATE: Ploughshare
>>>>>[May I inquire as to the mission? I am a
Samurai.]<<<<<
-- Shadow (18:15:30 PDT/ 07:23:57)

From:	Fred Michael Sloniker <lazuli@*.washington.edu>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Tue, 23 Jul 1996 19:14:50 -0700 (PDT)

Message no. 49 ***** PRIVATE: Ploughshare
>>>>>[Are you interested in a decker who works cheap? If so, I'm
interested in learning more.]<<<<<
-- Lazuli <21:15:37/07-23-57>

From:	NIGHTFOX <djwa@******.UCC.NAU.EDU>
Subject:	Re: Recruitment
Date:	Wed, 24 Jul 1996 09:14:57 -0700 (MST)

Message no. 50 *****Private: Ploughshare
>>>>>[ I have just returned to Seattle and I may be interested in the Job.
I am fairly well known in the Seattle Shadows as a Shaman.]<<<<<
-- Claw <09:16:17/07-24-57>

Message no. 51 *****PRIVATE: Lazuli, Shadow, Redemption, Glaive, Claw, Imp
>>>>[Hi there.

Most of you don't know me, but Ploughshare asked me to lead this run and
gave me your names, plus an operating budget that basically means
>>encrypted<< each if we just split it seven ways: not outstanding, but
not too tacky either for a fairly simple job. We'll probably end up
covering expenses and splitting the rest.

We're being asked to smash a place up. Go in, disable the guards as
necessary (preferably by beating the snot out of them rather than
killing them) and then go on a rampage of destruction amidst some
delicate scientific equipment. Basically, make it look like a few
gangers having fun.

Looks pretty simple, so far, the lab is a low-security place
specialising in low-power radiation work. Nothing leading-edge or
unusual.

There's probably a lot more people here than we need, but I don't know
any of you so I figured I'd ask everyone along. Means it's less
embarrasing when someone drops out or decides they're not interested.

Anyone still interested, meet me at >>place<<, 2100 hours tomorrow
night. It's a nice quiet place, you'll only need a sidearm if you need a
weapon at all.]<<<<<
-- Easy <18:20:32/07-24-57>

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