Find your own truth s-3

by Robert N. Charrette

  Dodger shifted, as though the memory made him uncomfortable. "It was the first use of the Ghost Dance magic. Of course it made an impression."

  "If you remember that, you must remember when they blew the Cascade volcanoes."

  "Clearly," Dodger said bitterly. There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Then Dodger collected himself and continued. "Coleman took responsibility for those as well. He was a radical and a terrorist. Were he available, I do not think you would find in him the slightest shred of humanitarian concern for one Caucasian's plight. He might have been called the Champion of the Red Man, the Awakened Ute, and the Son of the Great Spirit, but he started the Expulsion. He earned his nickname Red Braids a thousand times over.''

  "Red Braids?" Sam asked. "I don't remember ever reading that. What's it mean?"

  "It was for the color his braided hair turned when dipped in the blood of his enemies," Dodger said. "Not everything gets into the history books. You should know that by now, Sam."

  "You sound awfully bitter, Dodger. You have a personal grudge?" Hart asked. She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't she said, "Howling Coyote was a guerrilla leader in a difficult time. He saved the Indians from an oppressive government and helped them set up their own. He helped a lot of people, and may have damn well been responsible for saving the whole fragging planet. The megacorporations were polluting and raping earth into oblivion until the Awakened magic turned back some of the tide."

  "Coleman was only interested in his own people. I haven't seen the land turn green and verdant worldwide, nor have I seen the megacorps roll over and die. If Coleman was so great-hearted, where is he now? Why did he abandon his fight?" Dodger took a deep breath. "He was a butcher and an opportunist."

  "He may have been," Hart agreed. "The early days of the struggle were difficult and required harsh measures. He had a kinder side, too. He was the one who brought the NAN forces to the table in Denver. Without him, there'd have been no treaty of Denver. The war might still be going on. As to what he did during the Expulsion, IVe talked to some, on both sides, who were there. If not for Coleman, the resettlement clauses in the treaty would have been more draconian. I've been told that the Aztlan faction would have slaughtered anyone of non-Indian blood. And it was Coleman who fought for the repatriation payments clause that allowed the displaced people a chance to start new lives."

  Dodger snorted. "Those payments turned to smoke when measured against outstanding payments of the alleged debts owed to various Indian tribes by the various governments involved. He had power, and used it to his own ends."

  "What about the education and hospital care he sponsored? Most of it made special provision for the changed, hardly a universal concern in those days. As an elf, I'd think you'd appreciate that. And what of the environmentally safe energy supplies he encouraged?"

  Dodger shrugged. "Remorse? Public relations? I'm no mind-reader."

  "He answered those questions in his book, Howling in the Wilderness.''

  "Those were his public answers," Dodger said sourly. "He wrote the book while he was president of the Sovereign Tribal Council. One could hardly expect a truthful account."

  "The book's sort of a Mein Kampf crossed with Castaneda's Yaqui Way of Knowledge. Not exactly flattering to an incumbent. I don't think it was an apologia. It was too strange for that." Dodger turned away again, and Hart subsided into silence. The set of her jaw told Sam she was not happy with Dodger's stubbornness. Dodger's hunched shoulders showed Sam he wouldn't get help there, either.

  "You caught me out on tradition history," he said quietly to Hart, "but I've never been real big on political history, either. I know Coleman was real important once, but he stepped down or something. What happened to him?"

  "No one knows. About, oh, I guess it's been fifteen years now, he just up and walked away into the mountains."

  "Why?"

  "Got fed up with the politics in the STC and the Native American Nations, I suppose. When the big push to get non-Indians off the continent didn't work out, NAN solidarity sort of slipped. When the elves and such put Tir Tairngire together and Coleman backed them, he lost a lot of credibility with some of the tribal councils because of his policy of welcoming metahumans into Indian lands. Then Tsimshian broke away, too. I guess it was too much in just one year. He resigned and left everything behind."

  Once again Dodger broke in. "Or so say the official stories. There was shadow business then as well. Perhaps he had a falling out with his radical friends. Terrorists who disagree rarely settle their arguments with words."

  "You think somebody killed him?" The idea troubled Sam, and not just because murder was wrong. Tending more toward Hart's than Dodger's version of the man, he had begun to think that Howling Coyote might be just the shaman Janice needed.

  "Somebody might have," Dodger said. "Enough people might perceive a disgruntled magician with a history as a terrorist and a very dangerous threat." "Or a promising ally," Hart pointed out. Which was what Sam needed. "He really was a great shaman, wasn't he?"

  "Oh, yes. No doubt of it," she said. "Some people think the stuff in his book about learning the Great Ghost Dance was after-the-fact fantasizing, a political make-over to improve his image as Council president. But he was more than a figurehead for the Ghost Dancers. He really did lead the Dance himself." "That would make him a very powerful shaman." "Yes," Hart agreed slowly. "Perhaps more powerful than any magician the Sixth World has ever seen." Then, after a moment, "Human magician, that is."

  Sam wasn't worried about racial concerns. "Then he would know more about shamanic magic than anyone else."

  Hart laughed. "Like I know everything there is to know about being an elf? Stay real. He was a man who stumbled into power. He used it and used it well. He taught a lot of other people how to use it. But know everything? Who knows everything about anything?"

  "But he led the Great Ghost Dance," Sam insisted.

  "Yes. And he claimed more power than any human IVe ever heard of. Knowledge may be power, but the reverse is not necessarily true."

  Sam thought about that for a while. "The Dance was transformation magic, wasn't it?"

  "In part."

  "Then he wouldn't have to know about everything. Just how to channel the power to make the change. He could know that, couldn't he?"

  Hart mulled it over. "I don't know. I think you're grasping at straws."

  Sam did, too, but what other choice was there? If he wasted time tracking down lesser shamans who couldn't do the job, he might not have enough time to get to Howling Coyote. It was a gamble, but he didn't see an alternative. "IVe got to grab on to something. Otherwise Janice wfll slip away."

  "You may not be able to stop that," Hart warned.

  Sam didn't want to hear it. He could not believe his sister was irreversibly set on a course to becoming a monster in mind and soul as well as body.

  Hart still seemed set on dissuading him. "Why not start with some resources more to hand? Didn't you say that Professor Laverty once offered to help you with Janice? Just because Estios works for Laverty doesn't mean that the professor agrees with that bastard's field decisions. Talk to Laverty. Find out where he stands."

  "I don't think that would be advisable at this time," Dodger said. "Why not?" Hart asked. "I'd rather not say."

  "It isn't because he's involved with this Australian elf who's looking for Sam, is it?"

  ' 'I said I'd rather not say.'' Sam's stomach flip-flopped. "Dodger, are you holding out on me again?"

  Dodger turned and fixed Sam with bleak eyes. "Sam, I am asking you not to press. Were I to speak of how I learned of the one who hunts you, others beyond our circle might learn as well. That could have undesirable consequences for someone I would rather not see hurt."

  Sam suspected he knew to whom Dodger referred, and a surreptitious glance at Hart told him that she suspected the same. "Well if I can't go to Laverty, who else is there to ask?"

  "Lofwyr?" The bleakness in Dodger's voic
e betrayed him as more barren of reasonable ideas than Sam.

  "I don't think I could pay the price," Sam said. "Or survive the deal. That dragon nearly got us all killed the last time."

  "Sam, Father Rinaldi would know who to ask." Sam shook his head sadly. "We could hardly go to him now."

  Hart sighed. "I'm a hermetic magician, Sam. I don't know many shamans, and those I do know probably couldn't pump the power you seem to think is necessary. I'm trapped. I don't see an answer."

  Dodger nodded solemnly. "Naught to do now but face the inevitable."

  "It's settled then," Sam said firmly. "We'll get Howling Coyote."

  "But no one knows where he is," Hart protested. "If he is alive at all," Dodger added. Sam shrugged, dismissing their objections. If only his own fears could be dealt with so easily. "I'll find him," he said.

  Neko Noguchi stretched contentedly. The surroundings were eminently satisfactory: subdued lighting, soft music with just enough beat to be stimulating, condiments and liquid refreshments made from real foodstuffs, soft furniture, and an even softer bed waiting. Though Neko had not yet lain down on it, he was sure of the last; he had checked earlier in the evening. The woman was attentive and skilled. Monique, she had said her name was, a name as exotic to him as her sleek, dark good looks. Oh yes, he was content. This was how the best shadowrunners lived between runs, a lifestyle he was going to enjoy getting used to.

  He reached for the decanter to top off his glass. Monique nudged him gently in the ribs and nuzzled closer, holding out her glass. He grinned, more for his own amusement than in response to her smile. It was her third refill all on the tab, of course. She had guzzled twice as much as he had, and he knew from the buzz in his own head that the booze was good quality. Though her voice had started to slur, she was not really drunk or uncoordinated. Her drinks came from the same source as his, so she must have some kind of augmentation that shunted the liquor from her system or neutralized the alcohol. He wondered how many of these overpriced drinks it took to pay for her enhancement.

  She nestled in his arm and pulled at her drink. He settled back and sipped at his, ready to continue his tale.

  "Deckers are so proud of their ability to lift data from the systems of arrogant corporations, overbearing governments, and wealthy individuals. But they are fools to risk their brains against Intrusion Coun-termeasures, daring the black ice with only meat reflexes and the thin shield of their cyberdecks to protect them.

  "Data-theft, like most fine arts, can be accomplished in a variety of manners. Some are safer than others, of course."

  Monique's eyes were wide, shining with admiration. "What you did was not without danger. A decker might risk his brain, but you risked your body and life."

  "True. Life and limb were at peril." He sipped. "But my body is a well-honed machine, and like any machine, it can be rebuilt if necessary. You know the old saying, 'We have the technology.' As to the risk to my life? Breathing is a risk and walking down the street a danger. Death comes to all, and when it does, our worries and concerns leave us. No good karma comes from running away from what cannot be avoided. The real, true, and horrible fate worse than death is the loss of your mind. To remain breathing while the mind is absent or locked in a fugue is a nullity, existence without purpose. You cannot deal with this life nor go onward in the cycle. The brain death is what deckers risk. I would rather face a dragon in single combat."

  Monique shivered delicately. "Yet you stole the data. How did you do it?"

  Neko shrugged, dismissing the difficulty of his feat with deliberate casualness. "Cats are shadowy, silent creatures, unnoticed when they wish it so. I wished it so. Goroji-san will learn of his loss when his tame deckers begin tomorrow night's work.''

  "Aren't you afraid he will find out who stole from him? Goroji's kobun are notorious for their brutality."

  Chuckling, Neko put down his glass and traced the fine line of her chin. "However brutal they are, the f Goroji's clan cannot hurt what they cannot find."

  "You are marvelous." She kissed his finger. "Are you sure they can't trace you?"

  "Very." Neko kissed her. His lips tingled, a sensation brought about by her lipstick, he realized, because it was strongest where the liquor had not washed away much of the ruby tint. He pulled away to stare into her eyes. She lowered her lids, a feigned shyness that hinted at the pleasure to come. He smiled. Biz before pleasure; it was time to end the pretense. "You may assure Cog that what I have is no isotope. He will not be burned by simple association, although some of the offering will have a half-life of usefulness."

  "Cog? Who or what is Cog? What are you talking about?"

  Her eyes were wide and her tone a masterful blend of hurt and confusion. Her body language expressed innocence tinged with timidity and a hint of growing trepidation. He was impressed. The act would have been convincing. If he hadn't known better.

  "Excellent performance." He used his free hand to clap softly on the arm of the sofa. "But I do know that you belong to Cog. Do you think I would have spoken so freely if I hadn't known you were screening for the fixer?"

  Her deception remained in play while those dark eyes evaluated him, measuring his conviction and weighing the cost of dropping her pretense. He let the seconds drag. Finally her eyes shifted focus, checking the room around them. Looking for the hidden ready lights of the even better-hidden trideo cameras. She needn't have worried; he had already made sure the monitors were dysfunctional, though he saw no need to tell her that.

  "You are very astute for one so young," she said. He preened under the compliment. "A necessary attribute for anyone in the biz who wishes to get any older."

  "Messing with the yakuza is not conducive to long life. Were Goroji a simple boss, dealing with your offering would be a delicate business, but as it is, the heat is higher than desirable. You were aware that Goroji fronts for Grandmother?" He hadn't been. "Of course." Her eyes gave away nothing, but the slight twitch of a cheek muscle hinted disbelief, or at least suspicion. He smiled, hoping to project the air of a confident and assured runner.

  "Cog would prefer that your next offering have nothing to do with Grandmother's sources. She reacts violently when someone disturbs her network, and her wrath descends on those who bothered her and on anyone associated with those unfortunates. Should you continue to court such a fate, Cog wishes that you not involve him. He and Grandmother settled their feud long ago, and he has no desire to reopen that unpleasantness at this time."

  "No one expects a fixer to show a warrior's courage. This run was in direct response to the needs of a client for whom Cog serves as an intermediary. No stipulations or caveats were placed on me at the time of the request for information. Hence there should be no change in the payment. Fixers rely on their reputation with shadowrunners. Fair dealings are imperative."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "Within reasonable margins of profit, of course," he added.

  "I'm sure a reasonable fee will be paid for the contracted data."

  "And for the bonus material."

  "Commensurate with its value."

  "And its temperature."

  She smiled now. "We do have an understanding. The caution was meant for future dealings."

  "If Cog fears connection with further enquiries, perhaps he would consent to bow out and let me deal directly with the client." "Perhaps he will."

  The possibility that the fixer might cut himself out of the deal made Neko realize just how dangerous Cog thought the situation. How could Grandmother be so territorial? It was bad business. There had to be something more to the data he was uncovering for the elven decker. Some secret connection perhaps? Understanding what was happening would make it easier for him to know the value of what he discovered. Knowing the value, he could cut himself a better deal. Coinciden-tally, he would also know just what kind of danger he was facing.

  He continued to dicker with Monique over the price for his recent acquisitions, but his mind was preoccupied with other mat
ters. He began to wonder if Go-roji's search for Warlord Feng was just the yakuza boss grasping at power or something more sinister. Perhaps it was part of some great scheme of Grandmother's. The Feng data was juxtaposed in Goroji's files with material on enquiries into the matter of Renraku's Special Directorate. An operator like Grandmother would likely have more than one angle on an operation. Go-roji on the outside and Sato on the inside made for a well-orchestrated attack. Very understandable, considering the importance of the prize. Neko would be " surprised if Grandmother didn't have other tools work-(ing on the target as well. An artificial intelligence would be a powerful research tool in the Matrix. If it was as good as his decker acquaintances claimed it could be, what computer secret would be safe, save one defended by a similar artificial intelligence? The worth to an information broker would be incalculable.

  If Grandmother had access to such a machine, she would know all.

  And what did she want to know? Why did Feng interest her? What connection did a Chinese neowar-lord have with German terrorists, or to the breakup of the United States, or to Israeli commando strikes in Africa? And what did anyjrf those things have to do with the financing of Ordo Naturum, the Humanis pol-iclub offshoot, or with the financial holdings of Awakened beings? Neko didn't know the answers, but he was suddenly sure that all the information was interlocked in a web of intrigue. His curiosity was aroused. Even if the answers meant nothing to him, he was sure they would be worth a lot of nuyen to someone. All he had to do was figure out who. And what the answers were, of course.

  Seattle was worse than Portland. The boundary zones around the metroplex territory were not as developed as those around the city-state enclaves in Australia, but they bore the same hideous stamp of human architecture. The metroplex was crammed with smelly crowds of humans, dark breeds, and low-life elves. It was full of life, but only of a kind past the consideration of a rational being. The plex-dwellers were only vermin infesting a land nearly dead.

  Urdli wanted to go home. Australia was not what it should be, but even the wild mana and the chaos were preferable to the deadness of the metroplex and the stifling, oppressive gloom cast by the corporate skyscrapers. But he could not leave yet.