by Nyx Smith
“I thank you.”
The spirit bows and fades from view. Bandit takes one step further and enters his lodge. And then he is alone.
Alone in his alone place, his place of long magic.
The space is not large, just tall enough for him to stand, just large enough for him to do magic, and to store what must be stored in a safe and secret place. The lodge, like the apartment, is contained within a portion of the sub-basement no longer used by anyone but him, Shell, and the kids. Before making any changes, before making this private den, he took the unusual step of consulting with the spirit of this place. The spirit had welcomed him, invited him to make his den, to do his magic here. It had seemed gladdened to provide a sort of refuge. It has since manifested many times to speak with him, to tell him of the ways of spirits like himself, and of the ways of Man.
But it is not Man or men that trouble him tonight. It is the wallet Shell snatched yesterday, the ID card in that wallet, the image of the woman on that card. The woman’s image resembles someone he once knew. He wonders if that is coincidence, or if it is not, and what he should do about it.
For a time, he sits cross-legged, facing the small trunk that serves as his ritual altar. The candle glowing there gives him light to see the many artifacts of his lodge, the containers of colored sand and minerals, boxes of crystals, pelts, bones, drums, rattles. What the candle’s light does not show him is the answer he desires.
He lifts his flute, fingers the carefully engraved wood, watches the sheen of light from the candle coursing over the flute’s waxy finish. When he lifts the flute to his lips, he does not play any particular arrangement of notes, no set melody. He lets the music flow from within. He lets his spirit make the song.
Before long, the light of the candles wavers. Bandit realizes he is no longer alone.
The figure at the rear of his lodge looks like an old man. Bandit calls him Old Man. That is the name that seems right. He once thought that Old Man looked kind of Asian, but he was wrong. Old Man looks Amerind. His thin gray hair flows down past his shoulders. He wears clothes of natural leather, tan and dark brown, and necklaces and beads like native peoples wore long before the Awakening. Bandit once thought that Old Man might be Raccoon wearing a human mask, or some sort of spirit guide. In this, too, he was wrong.
“I guess you want something,” Old Man says."You called.”
Bandit nods. He considers turning to face Old Man, but decides against it. He faces the front of his lodge, the focal point of his magic. That is as it should be. That is the way of the shaman."I’m troubled.”
“I figured that. What about it?”
Bandit draws a breath, and says, “The shaman’s path can be hard to know. I began by learning magic and ignoring people. I tried to do what cannot be done. The shaman must be one with nature. People are part of nature and cannot be ignored. I tried to know nature, but not all of it, and so my magic was flawed, and I could go no further.”
“I know all that,” Old Man says."What’s your point?"
"Now I’m trying to learn about people. I’ve opened myself to people, I guess. I’m learning again. Discovering new things.”
“And?” Old Man sounded impatient.
“My thoughts trouble me.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“These thoughts are new. I think Shell gave them to me. She makes me wonder. About people. It’s not enough to learn only about people you meet in the streets. That’s just the beginning. People are individuals. They have different personalities and moods, and ...”
“Yes.”
“They have different relationships.”
“Nobody would argue that.”
“Some people are mothers and fathers. Some are just friends. Some are good friends and nearly as important as sisters or brothers.”
A long silence passes, then Old Man says, “I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I’m just an old man. I don’t have any answers. If I did, I probably forgot them. And what good would they be to you? You’re a shaman. You know some things about the world. You have to decide. You have to find your own answers.”
“I know that.”
“One time, I heard a man say to another: what’s it all about? The other man went on and on trying to explain, but he never did get his point across. He didn’t understand the question. He couldn’t. The man who asked the question was the only one who really knew what the question meant. How could anybody else explain when they didn’t understand the question?”
“You don’t understand what I’m talking about?”
“Do you?”
“I think I do.”
“Then let’s hear you explain it.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“That’s no answer. You know better. You’re a shaman. You’ve been through the ordeals. You didn’t attain the power of an initiate without being able to face the pain. You won’t get anywhere if you can’t face the pain. You know that. Pain is part of the world and you have to face it at its worst. That’s why attuning yourself to people is so important. The pain of mother earth is great, but what’s that compared to the pain of people, and the pain inside yourself? What greater pain is there than the pain you’re feeling right now?”
“You’re right.”
Old Man is right, Bandit tells himself again. The pain he’s feeling now is worse than anything. It’s fear and guilt and a sorrow so intense, so pure and so focused he can’t keep the tears out of his eyes. Can’t hardly breathe without choking."I ignored so many people ... spent so much time with only magic ... I almost killed myself ... I see that now ... I cut away part of myself ... I guess ... I guess ... I have to get it back ...”
“What was your first clue?”
“It was Shell ... something she said. She called me ... she said . . . She said I’m a private person ... I never thought of it that way ... I’m a shaman . . . follow Raccoon ... That’s all ...”
“You’re a person, too.”
Bandit nods."I need to become whole again. A whole person.”
“I guess you know what you have to do.”
Bandit nods, wipes at his eyes. The image of that woman on the card Shell snatched makes it a certainty.
“I guess you’re ready now.”
Bandit nods.
Ready for anything.
14
The road is a wavering phantom streaming toward her, white lines blurring, gleaming in the brilliant headlights of the truck. She is somewhere south of Bangor with Portland coming up fast. The truck engine whines, telltales pegging max. The hunt for her cub leads her now to Boston. That is where she will find the only living person who knew she would be at the cabin along the Road to Nowhere.
That person has betrayed her. Whether the betrayal was deliberate or the result of some foolish error is irrelevant. The betrayal has cost her and she will see the debt repaid.
Doing that should tell her more about the bounty hunter O’Keefe and the other elves who stole her cub, such as where they might be found.
In Boston? That would be too easy.
Abruptly, a siren wails. Tikki looks to the rear scanner to see strobe lights flashing behind her. Some form of patrol vehicle, a cruiser perhaps, is just thirty meters away and closing in fast. The speed of closure makes Tikki wish she had a vehicle quicker than this pickup truck.
She tugs at the wheel, yanking the trunk into the right-hand lane, but the cruiser abruptly slows, rather than passing by, and veers into the lane close in on her backside.
The siren whoops and screams.
A voice booms, "PULL IT OVER!"
And now she must make a decision. Possibly, these police want her to stop for something as trivial as speeding. They may know nothing more than that, but they will swiftly realize the truck is stolen, even if they’re just hick backwoods cops or corporate zonies. She could ignore them, go on driving, but more two-legs would come and they would force a confrontation. She could abandon the truck and run, but that would co
st her time, and every passing instant is a rising fury threatening to supplant rational thinking with instinct’s most savage urgings. She can no more afford the inevitable costs of instinct than the loss of more time. She really has only one option.
She puts on the right-tum blinker, slows the truck, and steers onto the shoulder. The cruiser follows closely. When she stops, the cruiser halts about five meters behind her truck. She counts to three, watching the flashing strobes, and then, with the tranny in reverse, rams the accelerator to the floor.
The truck engine roars. Tires shriek and whine and tear at the earth. Acceleration is rapid, but fleeting. The rear of the truck impacts the front of the cruiser. Plasteel crashes and the impact hurls Tikki against the back of her seat. The shock of that costs her half a second, but then she’s like a road train slamming out through the driver’s door, turning, charging the cruiser, lunging into the air and across the cruiser’s rumpled front hood.
As she lunges, her body swells and stretches. Clothing bursts and tears. Black-striped fur the color of blood rushes over her skin. Jaws swell immense. Hands become massive paws sprouting claws and smashing the cruiser’s windshield into fragments.
The cops are shouting in alarm and stinking of terror, but by then she’s inside the car—twisting, turning, tearing belts off uniforms and commlinks from the dash.
In the frenzy of those moments, a gun roars beside her ear, but she hardly feels the sting of fur and flesh being torn from the side of her skull. She drives a paw against a head and the head hits the passenger-side window and one of the cops goes limp, alive, but unconscious. The other one is disabled as quickly.
That leaves her with another problem, one becoming too familiar. What does she do for clothes?
She eyes the cops’ blue uniforms.
15
“Amy? ... Amy!”
Startled, Amy looks up and around.
Tonight, she’s wearing her newest, most costly evening gown, her Armante Starlight gown, clinging cloth-of-gold speckled with faux diamonds that cast a subtle golden halo all around her. The gown really belongs on someone with a figure far more stellar than her own, but she felt persuaded to make the investment, and to take the incumbent risk, on account of the man sitting opposite her.
Just across the glittering crystal table sits Harman Franck-Natali, wearing the Saville Nights suit that makes him seem so much the successful exec. Amy notices that Harman’s looking at her like he’s either puzzled or angry, and that’s odd. Harman is usually the picture of self-control. What’s going-on?
Beside the table stands an older, gray-haired man, a waiter in a tuxedo, the very picture of Old World elegance and dignity. He fits his background perfectly. The main dining room of Avant Tout is lit subtly by the suffused light sifting up through the crystal tables. Rainbows shine softly against the ceiling. Whalesong plays discreetly from hidden speakers. The atmosphere is one of understated opulence.
“Would you care to order?” Harman asks.
On the table before her is a sparking haut ton menu. Of course, she’s barely glanced at the listings and now everyone’s waiting for her decision. Harman’s waiting again. She kept him waiting almost half an hour, earlier this evening, while she finished dressing."What are you having?” she asks.
“We’ll be a few minutes,” Harman tells the waiter.
“Of course, sir. Madame.” The waiter bows and goes off. Harman turns his right hand palm up as if to ask what’s going on, and says, “Am I putting you to sleep?”
“I’m sorry,” Amy says, suddenly recognizing the disappointment in his eyes. She barely suppresses a moan."I’m spoiling it all.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s work. I can’t get it off my mind.”
Harman hesitates a moment, watching her, then says, “Why don’t we forget dinner? It’s been a long day for me, too. We can grab some food somewhere, and I’ll drive you home. We can talk on the way.”
Amy nods, grateful, and sad and disappointed, but resigned.
Harman had wanted this to be a special evening. They’ve been seeing each other for exactly a year, and it seems like their relationship is really heading somewhere. Lately, they’d begun talking about the future in terms of “we” and “us”. Amy likes that. She’s been a long time getting around to meeting someone with whom she could talk like that. She has a definite feeling that this could be the one, a someone she might spend the rest of her life with. She hopes so. She hopes he understands that her problems tonight have nothing to do with her feelings for him.
They head for the door. Harman rescues her shawl from the checkroom and drapes it carefully about her shoulders. She manages a smile of thanks. A tuxedoed doorman escorts them outside, to the broad semicircular walk embracing the sparkling fountain before the restaurant’s main entrance. A black-suited valet brings Harman’s stately Mitsubishi Patrician. The doorman opens Amy’s door.
“Au revoir, Madame."
“Yes. Thank you. Good night.”
Harman turns the car onto Seventh, heading downtown. Just a few blocks north of Times Square is one of the city’s small treasures: The Second Avenue Deli. Tourists look for it over by Turtle Bay, but it’s actually right at the heart of things, just off Duffy Square. Harman goes in alone, gets them hot pastrami sandwiches, a carafe of wine, and two cups of dessert coffee. They eat in the car, parked right there at curbside, accompanied by classical melodies from Harman’s extensive stereo collection.
“Picnic in Midtown,” Harman says.
“It’s fine.”
What better place to eat than so near the theater district, where scripter’s dramas strive to illuminate the melodrama of life? It’s safe enough. Cars marked for NYPD Inc. pass by nearly every time the traffic lights change. A pair of uniformed officers from Winter Systems stand right outside the deli, keeping a watchful eye on things.
“It must be your Tokyo auditors,” Harman says."They’re stirring things up?”
Amy nods. She supposes it’s time for the talk Harman mentioned. She doesn’t want to burden him with her work problems, but neither does she want to shut him out. She struggles with that minor dilemma, and finally decides it’s important that he should know. He’s become as important to her as her career, perhaps even more so. She shouldn’t keep secrets. But where should she start? “You know what a mess things were when I joined HC. It was taking some departments months just to order software prepacks.”
Harman nods, smiles."You did a hell of a job straightening that out.”
“I did what I could,” Amy agrees, “but I’m only one person. The purchasing process seemed like the obvious priority. Unfortunately, I still have lots to do on the other side of the equation, and that’s what the auditors are looking at.”
“Resource consumption?”
“Tracking, consumption . . .” Amy nods, recalling her “discussion” with Kurushima Jussai."We bought a dragon’s hangnail for some metascience experiment. Did we ever use it? Well, it cost us half a million nuyen. Why don’t you have any answers?”
“I wasn’t aware that dragons could get hangnails.”
“I’m being facetious.”
“As am I.” Harman’s smile turns from apologetic to warm and sympathetic."I’m sorry. I don’t mean to belittle your situation. It’s just rather surprising ... half a million nuyen.
Sometimes it seems that my people spend that much on drinks in a week.”
“I know.” Amy watches the play of emotions across Harman’s face, then leans near enough to kiss his cheek."I know exactly what you mean.”
And, in truth, Harman’s reaction is perfectly natural. He is Managing Director of Sales for Mitsuhama Systems Engineering, a division of Mitsuhama UCAS, part of one of the world’s most powerful megacorps. Hurley-Cooper’s parent corp, KFK International, is pretty big too, but comparing HC to Harman’s division is simply ridiculous. Harman’s sales force spans the globe and brings in billions. Hurley-Cooper Laboratories does important wor
k, and turns a tidy profit, but in terms of nuyen it’s strictly small-time.
“Don’t you have a resource director?” Harman asks.
"Yes, Bob Ganz,” Amy replies."He’s Director of Resource Management. That’s another problem.”
“Tell me about it.”
A year ago she might have looked at Harman and wondered why the Director of Sales for Mitsuhama Systems Engineering was so interested in her problems. She doesn’t suffer from doubts like that anymore. Harman’s voice is soft, his expression is concerned. He wouldn’t waste a second over a little corp like Hurley-Cooper except that it’s her little corp and that makes all the difference. She trusts him to keep this just between him and her.
“Bob isn’t a very imaginative person.”
“That’s not good.”
“And he uses BTLs.”
Both of them know what that means. Through the miracle of virtual experience, BTLs give thrills even Better Than Life. They’re a variety of high-gain, mega-output simsense chip, perfectly addictive."Then he should go,” Harman says softly.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Chipheads aren’t going to do you or HC any good."
"Bob’s been with HC almost thirty years. He worked his way up from nothing. He’s one of those people who always worked twice as hard as everyone else because he knows he has limitations. I think that’s how he got hooked on BTLs, trying to take up the slack, pushing himself.”
“He’ll burn out sooner or later.”
“Maybe. I gave him a pep talk and an ultimatum. You’re a good man and you do good work, but get into a program. Get clean or you’re out. I think he’s making progress."
"And you believe he deserves the chance to redeem himself.”
