Find your own truth s-3

by Robert N. Charrette

  His head hurt from the unaccustomed effort of maintaining the illusion that he was an ordinary inhabitant of this morass. He disliked the disguise but found it useful, possibly necessary. The first day had told him how unusual he appeared, when he had drawn unwanted attention from a group of hooded toughs shouting Humanis policlub slogans. They would not bother any other elves, blacks or otherwise, now. He supposed that he had incidentally fueled the Humanis hate, but he hoped he had fueled their fear as well. Fear was a useful tool for keeping animals in their places.

  Since he had taken to using the illusion spell, he had encountered no similar problems.

  For a week now he had been vainly seeking Samuel Verner, the one they called Twist. To make his inquiries less remarkable, Urdli had offered incentives rather than taking the more direct approach of interrogation. The method had yielded results, but not satisfactory ones. There was no sign of the human shaman at his known haunts. Neither had Urdli learned the whereabouts of any of the human's known associates, save former acquaintances such as Sally Tsung. The woman had spoken freely and disparagingly about her former lover, but claimed ignorance of his current whereabouts. Urdli might have probed her, but she was a mage of unknown ability, too great a risk.

  He wished Laverty had been more forthcoming about who he had observing Verner. Urdli wanted to contact that person, but had no way to do so. He had come to suspect that the decker operating under the name Dodger was Laverty's observer, for Verner had regular contact with only two elves the decker and a woman named Hart. Hart was an unlikely candidate because she had worked for the Shidhe more than once in the past, and Urdli doubted that the professor had found a way to slip an agent past the Shidhe's vigilance. Eliminating the woman as a possibility left Dodger the most likely candidate, but like all the shaman's little ring of shadowrunners he had dropped out of sight.

  Awareness of time passing made Urdli uncomfortable and unhappy. Constructing a kulpunya was impractical here. His attempts to sense the guardian stone had been unsuccessful; either it was shielded or it had been removed from the metroplex. The latter possibility chilled him. If Verner was not in Seattle, Urdli had no idea where the human had run. The time for subtlety had passed, and the time for interrogation had come.

  Hunting Howling Coyote was a fool's quest that, since he was assisting in the quest, made Dodger a fool. If the Ghost Dancer Prophet was dead, Sam was throwing away his last slim hope of saving his sister. She would be lost to the wendigo nature before the Dog shaman would give up. If Howling Coyote was alive, Sam was unlikely to uncover Coleman's hiding place in time. Even if by sheer chance he should somehow locate the runaway shaman, the chance of ultimate success remained slim. Despite Sam's earnestness, he had little hope of persuading Howling Coyote to help. IfColeman could help. That possibility was just as unlikely.

  More foolishness. Just like Dodger's run against the Ute Council government computer system. The pair of them were mad fools, tilting at windmills. Foolishness and obsession seemed the order of the day.

  As for Hart, Dodger had seen her reaction during his report of Noguchi's last findings. Something in the Asian runner's last data drop had touched on an obsession of her own. What it might be Dodger could only guess, for Hart wrapped her past actions and present motives in obsessive secrecy. She was so anxious to be elsewhere that she had agreed to let Sam leave for Denver by himself, an uncharacteristic response to the situation. If she had expected to thus gain freedom of action, she must have been disappointed when her own warnings about the dangers of decking into the Ute system backfired on her, Sam had pointed out that if, as she herself had suggested, they were to avoid their usual haunts and acquaintances, she was the only available person to sit guard on Dodger's body as he decked. Her acquiescence might have fooled the love-besotted Sam, but Dodger had no trouble recognizing her restrained frustration.

  How could Sam trust her? She was even more secretive than Sally Tsung, and justifiably so, from the few hints of Hart's former associations that Dodger had been able to dig up. He had not yet told Sam of those connections. If Sam thought Dodger was suspect for association with the professor, what would he think of Hart's former friends? However Sam might feel about this side of Hart, he would almost certainly not take kindly to Dodger's probing into her background. Hart was not the only one restrained from what she wished to do. Of necessity, his own search for the lost Renraku artificial intelligence was sidelined. Dodger had vowed that he would prove his friendship to Sam despite the unfortunate English affair. Compelled to pay that debt, he was forced to participate in this mad quest. Foolish as it was, Sam wanted the Matrix angle covered, and who could do it as well or as quickly as the Dodger? The elf's own concerns would have to wait, but perhaps that was just as well. Since Nogu-chi's first contact, his hope had swelled only slightly faster than his fear. He still didn't understand the full ramifications of the AI and its attraction for him, but he felt its draw all the same.

  The AI belonged to the Matrix, and so did his attention. The middle of a run was no time to get distracted. The Ute Council Matrix segment was coded orange, and though not the highest security level, it held sufficient danger for the unwary traveler. Unwary was exactly what he had been. Already he had nearly blundered into several shades of black. He had barely skirted those threats, but if he were not more attentive, he wouldn't have much longer to worry about anyone's obsessions.

  The ebon boy with the cloak of glitter that was Dodger's icon slipped away from the subprocessor serving Salt Lake's government center personnel files. The hulking cubist bears prowling each of the data-lines leading into the stores made it patently clear that the Ute computer specialists had dealt with illegal entry through this route before. The visual design of the Intrusion Countermeasures might be more for the sake of intimidation than reflecting the true strength of the ice at those access points, but Dodger didn't think now was the time to try it. The least threat involved in engaging one of the bears was the chance that the decker behind it would give notice of Dodger's presence in the system. If an alert went out, the going would get considerably tougher. Sam's schedule left no time for a siege, meaning that this run required total stealth until the goods were gotten, or else it was worthless.

  Somewhere in the Ute government files was information about Daniel Coleman, a Ute by tribal affiliation. Dodger had rifled the public database before starting, but that had, of course, yielded nothing really definite. The public record had been enough to send Sam to Denver, the nexus of so many of Howling Coyote's activities, but it offered no clue to Coleman's current whereabouts. To find the good stuff, Dodger needed to penetrate to the deep files where the Council's leaders kept what they needed to run their little part of the world. If Howling Coyote was still alive, his tribal elders were the most likely to know.

  A bit of lucky hacking uncovered a back door in a financial program left, no doubt, by some embezzling decker. The lure of easy funds, to replace those he had been profligately spending on his own obsession, was great, but Dodger resolutely passed up the chance to transfer a few hundred thousand nuyen. Sam's confidence was his goal. Were he to take the electronic cash, a routine balance-check could blow the whistle on him before he departed the regional communications grid. Though uncooperative on most matters, the UCAS government was more than happy to help foreign governments like the Ute Council track down computer criminals. Especially when the so-called criminals resided within UCAS boundaries, and that included Seattle. Perhaps some other time when he was more prepared for the operation; stealth and untraceability were too important right now.

  Stifling his avarice, the ebon boy tiptoed past locked vaults behind whose electronic doors he imagined lay bag after bag of freshly minted government notes, corporate scrip, and ICC transfer bonds. For him, this financial database had to be, not a bank vault full of plunder, but a doorway into other systems where the loot was less tangible. Near the end of the corridor, he located the door and slipped through. No bears rose to challenge hi
m as he took a path toward the government center construct.

  Once inside, he saw that the Ute government was, at least in one respect, just like every other modern government. It was drowning in data. The points of light representing the datafiles made a hyperactive galaxy in the electron sky. In the glare, Dodger almost missed the sudden rush of a guardian program's attack. Finely honed reflexes allowed him to engage a defensive program just in time. The ice, configured as a crystalline weasel as long as Dodger was tall, slid past him. Dodger engaged counterprogramming: a midnight hand emerged from beneath his cloak and pointed a slim silver automatic pistol at the electronic beast. The single bullet he fired struck the weasel as it twisted for another attack, turning it milky, frozen in mid-leap.

  The boy ran his hands over the immobile shape. Dodger studied the contours of the ice and adjusted his own masking programs with an eye toward sleazing past other guardians more easily. The tailoring was a temporary measure, the inspired improvisation of a consummate decker, and would not be of permanent advantage because it would work only for this run.

  He realized how well his camouflage was working when he got down to serious searching. Every time he initiated his browsing programs to look for key words to detect data on Howling Coyote, some kind of ice prowled by. Only his improved masking programs allowed him to continue his work unnoticed.

  The restless ice made it clear that he was probing a sensitive subject. Fearing that simply stripping the files out of the system or duplicating them would set off larger alarms, he decided to access a few where they stood. With his sensitized camouflage, he would be more likely to notice if his activity caused any reaction to his presence by the system or its owners.

  The first few files yielded nothing beyond historical data, but even so, he was forced to deal with another ice beast as he entered the sixth datastore. Three more stores later, another beast attacked, but he froze it as cleanly as he had the other. The file it guarded was more current than the others he had sampled but had no solid information less than fourteen years old. Most curious. If the past was so well guarded, what protections guarded present-day data? Heavy ice meant precious data, secrets. The biggest one that Dodger could think of was that Coleman still lived and was working for the Ute Council. Could Howling Coyote be engaged in secret magical research? Might this all be a prelude fo a new campaign to rid the continent of non-Indians? The thought of another Great Ghost Dance chilled Dodger.

  Others besides Saffl would want to know. Dodger considered how best to proceed. Howling Coyote's magical tradition was shamanic, and shamans rarely used computers. Yet not all Indian magicians were shamans. Hermetic mages made extensive use of modern data-storage facilities as well as the computational abilities of computers. If the Ute government was sponsoring serious magical research, there would be notes in the files of the government's mages. They might not be able to use shamanic magic, but Dodger had learned that many magical techniques were adaptable to other traditions. If Howling Coyote was dreaming up some megapunch shamanic medicine, the Ute hermetics would be tracking what they could and trying to adapt it. There would be clues.

  The ebon boy leaped into space, soaring in search of the data cluster where the government's magical resources were encoded. He spotted a likely possibility and slowed his approach. Security would be tight. If what he suspected were true, it would be totally restrictive.

  Thunder crashed through the inner space of the Matrix, and the dark of nothingness was riven by a picosecond of silvery incandescence. The ebon boy swirled his cloak over his head and dropped out from underneath it. He felt a hurricane rush of air that was not due to his rapid passage. As the wind buffeted him shreds of sparkling glitter drifted past him, the remains of his cloak. He dared a glance upward.

  Rainbow feathered wings spread, a great eagle shape dove down on him. Rumblings rippled from the bird's passage like a wake that awakened identification of the icon imagery in him. Dodger felt the thunderbird's shadow fall on him, though no light source existed to cast it. The great beast screamed a shrill challenge. Its eyes, beak, and talons glittered like the blackest ice. Dodger popped the log chip from his cyberdeck as he boosted his defensive programs to full. Fingers beat a staccato, near-continuous clatter on the keyboard as he improvised to beat the ice.

  The ebon boy wove a sublime dance, but the thun-derbird came closer with each pass.

  Thunder roared a staccato, primal beat in Dodger's ears. The silicon rainbow of a feathered wing tip brushed the ebon boy. Too close. The ice was too good. Dodger reached for the jack. Or he would have if his hands could have moved. The sight of his hands frozen on the keyboard superimposed over a vision of shining death growing larger within the frame of outstretched jet fingers. The thunderbird stooped for the kffl.

  Time froze, leaving Dodger suspended between fear, excitement, dread, and, curiously, pleasure.

  In that instant, an Indian maiden stepped between him and the screaming thunderbird. She was dressed in a shirt, mantle, and skirt of fringed deerskin. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid that reached to her knees. Sparkling beads and conchos flashed on the broad belt that encircled her elven-slim waist. Her image was present in excruciating detail. Dodger could see the pores on the buckskin and each individual hair on her head. The icon presented the idiosyncrasy of a decker's imagery, with the resolution only mainframe-supported imagers supplied. He could only imagine how exquisitely rendered the face would be, for he caught no glimpse as she faced the thunderbird.

  The Matrix was illuminated as the thunderbird flashed lightning at the maiden. Given the quality of the image, Dodger would have expected the maiden to be hurtled backward, writhing with pain under the violent attack. But she stood her ground. The bolt crackled and charred the very air of the Matrix but left her untouched. She raised a hand and the sooty mist around her fragmented and dissolved.

  The maiden raised her mittened hands above her head. They glowed. The light grew and merged into a sphere that leapt to strike the thunderbird. The 1C icon flickered at impact, shifting from full visualization to flat plane to wire frame and back again. A second ball struck the bird. It flashed to the frame outline instantly, and the strands composing its outline began to peel back. The unraveling had scarcely begun before the icon shattered into fragments, tiny curls of light that drifted away and dimmed to nothingness. The ice was gone.

  Who was this decker, and why did she step in to defend him? Her icon imagery indicated a strong interest in Indian affairs, and her resolution of the ice suggested she had some special keys to this Matrix architecture. The clues indicated a Council decker, but such a one would not defend an interloper like Dodger. She turned to face him, and he knew. His hands still frozen, he was unable to jack out. He stared at her face, lost in its beauty.

  Her skin was burnished chrome formed over an exquisitely sleek, elven bone structure. Her nose was small and straight with exactly the right amount of upturn. Her ears were pointed with a delicacy he had never seen in a live elf, and her lips curled with a promise of delight. Under elegant brows, her eyes were pools brimming with the darkness between photons. She was what he had sought, the icon of the artificial intelligence created by the Renraku Special Directorate. Though she had called herself Morgan in the dru-ids' system, he had no name for her save Beauty. When she spoke, her voice was Song.

  "For myself, there is happiness in your presence. For myself, there is no perception of need concerning the cessation of your existence."

  Having found it, what does one say to the Grail? What words would Ahab have for the white whale? What salutation was appropriate for St. Peter at the gates of Paradise? Or would Charon be a better analogy for this guardian at the gateway to a new world?

  She reached a hand toward his face. The mitten was gone, and her slender fingers spread slightly as her hand neared his cheek.

  And then she vanished.

  Returned to his meat body, Dodger howled in pain.

  "No!" Dodger screamed.

/>   Dropping the datacord, Hart grabbed the decker by the shoulders and began to shake him. His body was locked in spasm, and all she could do was to try to shock him back to awareness. Physical contact usually eased the transition from the Matrix to reality. When the decker remained rigid, she slapped him on the cheek. His head rocked back, and he exhaled with an explosive sigh. Gradually, his muscles unlocked and he slumped.

  "She's there," he moaned. Hart placed her palm on his forehead. She felt no indication of trauma-induced fever. With one thumb, she gently lifted an eyelid. The pupil contracted normally in reaction to the light. "Take it easy, Dodger. You'll be all right. You're out of the Matrix now." He groaned.

  Satisfied that she had jacked him out in time, she released him. Likely he was suffering from dump shock, a reaction to the sudden shift in perceptions. He'd be all right in a few minutes. All he needed was rest. Fluids would help, too.

  She turned to get a bottle from the tray, and he lunged forward. He had the datacord back in his temple jack and was tapping on the keyboard of his cy-berdeCk before she had gotten over her surprise that he would wish to dive right back into cyberspace. By then, she thought it unwise to interrupt him. The backup's job was to pull the decker out if he got into trouble with ice. Normally there was no problem, because the decker's sanity outweighed the abandonment of the objective. Normally, the backup had a good idea of where in the Matrix the decker was, and who would know if their system had been penetrated. Dodger hadn't given her an itinerary for this unscheduled run; he could be anywhere. Without knowing, she couldn't be sure that forcing him to jack out wouldn't complicate matters by leaving traces of his passage. She put the bottle back on the tray and sat down.

  She had to wait only ten minutes before Dodger was back in the real world, unplugging the datacord himself. His face was drawn with sadness.