Free Shadowboxer by Nicholas Pollotta

for last, a motherfragging insect shaman. The screaming freak unleashed some flying things like hornet-bats or something, but couldn’t survive the big batch of fire-death from the packages of CIO plastique they brought along. It was a rocking party. Would have made a hell of a trid-of-the-week.
    The spellcaster died in a chemical fireball better than any he could conjure and, unconscious, Two Bears and Jake both got saved from the burning wreckage by the city firefighters, of all things. Then they did a year in the Citadel for destroying public property and possession of restricted materials. Lone Star knew what had gone down, but refused to sanction any independent action that made them look bad. Welcome to Miami, chummer.
    It would have been so much simpler to juke the gangers’ hole to the ground. Slab the Morlocks and Jake at once. Easy as shooting crabs off a tree. But your word was your bond on the streets. The only thing a chummer could not buy was his own rep. So Two Bears saved the man who’d gotten his one true love. Melinda. He tried not to wonder if she’d have stayed with him when the change hit him later and he became a dwarf. Did she stay with Jake because she loved him more, or because Adam Two Bears was different now? Two Bears would never know. Sometimes, the truth was better not known. There was great comfort in lies.
    Reaching below the counter, the suddenly smiling bartender started to pull something large and metallic into view when a voice stopped him.
    “Hoi, Two,” rumbled a human standing in the doorway that led to the back storeroom. Light poured in from behind him and it wasn’t until the norm closed the portal that Two Bears could clearly see who it was.
    The years had not been kind to Jake. Although still skinny and dark as a stick, Fat Jake was wearing a sleeveless tee that showed a network of thin scars trailing up both arms. His left ear, half hidden behind graying hair, shone with flawless health. Plastic ear, and wires. Chipped or skillwires, Two Bears had no idea. But in his youth, the other man had scorned both as crutches for the weak and stupid. Guess Jake was showing his age at last. Then again, he’d been a full adult when Two Bears was a snotty juve who didn’t know the difference between bullets and bullshit. How old was the norm now, fifty? More? No matter. It would be best not to mention the physical changes. Never insult the hand before it feeds you.
    “O-hio, Jake,” returned Two Bears deliberately using the casual Japper greeting between friends. A little reminding couldn’t hurt here.
    “You know this ... thing?” snarled the bartender, returning whatever it was to back under the counter. The rest of the patrons did the same with their own ironmongery. Slowly and reluctantly.
    So this is what a skeet feels like, thought Two Bears.
    “Yah, the runt’s mine,” said the gray-haired norm. The two old friends cum enemies looked at each other, and the norm cracked a half-smile. “You got that data I sent you to steal, crit?”
    Inside, Two Bears went stiff, but refused to allow his fury to show. This was a game the dwarf didn’t want to play, but he’d started it without warning, and what could he do? Challenge the norm here among his chummers? All bets would be off, and Jake would have to geek him on the spot to save face. Eat a little pride, live another day. It was drek sandwich time. But he made a mental note of the humiliation for the future.
    “Yes, sir,” Two Bears replied humbly, giving a short bow. “Of course, sir. I have it right here, sir.”
    Jake waved a hand and turned without waiting for a response. “My office, meta. Now.”
    “Ya sure it’s housebroken chief?” taunted a leathergirl at a table full of steins.
    “Why should it be?” he retorted. “You ain’t.”
    The bar patrons roared in laughter, and the snipes flew thick as the heavy door cycled shut, cutting off all sound.
    Inside the office of the Casa Cabana, Two Bears