Shadowrun - Novel - 18 - Worlds Without End.pdf

Shadowrun Caroline Spector - Worlds Without End
ing crowds. The little man rode through them making
his straight-arm salute to the frantically waving
masses.
And then I saw her.
At first I couldn't believe my eyes, but the shot
held and I knew what I was seeing was true. It was
Alachia.
She was sitting in one of the cars in the rear of the
procession. An expression of perfect happiness was
etched in her face. A blond man with his hair slicked
back and perfect Aryan features waved at the crowds
while his other arm encircled her waist. He smiled
down at her and she smiled back. They were gone in
an instant, replaced by the image of refugees fleeing
down some unknown road.
The screen went black and then the Parade of
Fashions appeared. Sweat rolled down my face but I
was suddenly cold. So very cold.
We rode the shuttle bus headed south toward Dublin,
hooking up to Dorsett Street once we were in the
city proper.
We'd made it through customs relatively easily.
There was no need to resort to the sort of tactics I'd
used on that idiotic bureaucrat from before. Like
many of the Dublin streets, this one turned and bent
and changed names. We took a left onto Church
Street and headed south toward the river. Four
Courts was to our left. The dome of the central
building was covered in the green patina that comes
to all copper as it ages. It was a beautiful piece of
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neoclassical work. All white columns and statuary at
every corner. The fact that it was standing after all
this time gave me a fleeting feeling of permanence.
As we crossed Whitworth Bridge, I looked out the
window. Below us the Liffey River flowed a grayjade
color, the dark clouds of the late-October sky
barely reflected in its depths.
At the next stop, we left the tram and cut across
West High Street. It was a strange experience, to see
almost as many elves as humans walking about. No
one gave us a second look. Oh well, perhaps one or
two. We were dressed better than the average Dubliner.
I know the reports out of the Tir have it that
the land is green and milk and honey flow from every
stream, but after all, this is Eire.
Poverty has been at the throat of the people for
generations. And goblinization hadn't changed that.
Perhaps no one was starving, but all was not well in
the Tir.
At St. Nicholas Street we headed south and cut
west before we reached St. Patrick's Park. I glanced
back to see if anyone was following us. An old
woman pulled a shopping cart filled with vegetables,
but as far as I could see there was no one tailing us.
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