Find your own truth s-3

by Robert N. Charrette

  "Konichiwa, Sato-san, " she said. "Ohayo, " he replied, abandoning politeness in his irritation at her use of the familiar form before his staff. "What do you want?"

  She smiled at the directness, apparently enjoying his further desertion of etiquette. "I? I am but a messenger."

  Her false air of innocent humility was offensive. "Then give your message."

  "Very wall." She tapped a few keys on her console and studied the screen for a moment as though to refresh her memory. "An object of some significance has come to notice here in Seattle. I am reliably informed that it would make a wonderful present for your grandmother."

  It was not the sort of request he had expected. "Why do you tell me this? She has her own wealth. Can she not buy this object or hire someone to acquire it? I already do much for her, and this may go beyond what she has expected of me in the past. Or is the object in some way related to last year's unfortunate loss?"

  "Related, yes. But it will not lessen the loss. It is only fondness that makes your grandmother summon you in this matter. She is taking steps to assure its acquisition, but thought you would be disappointed if not involved. For you see, the possessor of this object is someone you know, a person involved in events of last year. While the object and his possession of it have no bearing on that other issue, your grandmother thought you might appreciate the opportunity to conclude formerly unresolved matters while earning her gratitude."

  There was certainly more to it than that, but only by playing along would Sato find out what. Whatever was going on, Grandmother desired this object with a greed that rivaled her appetite for information. "Would her gratitude extend to forgiving all outstanding debts?"

  "Who knows?" leno chuckled. The sound reminded Sato of a child strangling. "I believe that she will be so enriched by this gift that anything is possible. Even for my small part, I expect a generous reward."

  But you are only a functionary. / could lose all I have built by chasing after her ends. "Sije, does not expect me to compromise my position by pursuing this object," leno showed her stained teeth in what passed for a grin. "Naturally not. But she does wish your personal attention to the matter.''

  "I see." And he did. He felt inspired. The insistence and eagerness of her agent betrayed Grandmother. Anything important enough that she would mobilize him to obtain it must be worth possessing, and the gaining of it might be enough to free him from her influence. He would never be fool enough to rely on her honor or gratitude to release him, however. That would be a mistake. Instead, he would find a way to use this opportunity to turn the tables. In the end, he would be the strong man shaking off the oppressor's yoke to make the overseer do the work of the former slave. He had waited too long.

  "The well-brought-up man cannot refuse the rea sonable wishes of his honorable grandmother. Give me the details, that I may do as she wishes."

  The data on the credstick said he was Walter Smith. Smith was the best identity in the packet Sam had obtained from Cog. So far, it had seen him through checkpoints in the Sioux Council Zone without a hitch. He was glad no challenge had come as the panzer runner's friends transported him from the hangar in the foothills of the Rockies up near Golden. Sam didn't want a record of Walter Smith entering the treaty city; Smith supposedly lived in Denver.

  Though Sam was confident of the identity of Smith and each of the other three "persons" in his pocket, he didn't want to press his luck. He planned to avoid the roadblocks and checkpoints between the zones of the partitioned city whenever possible. It wouldn't be too much of a problem. Denver's shadowfolk and street people drifted across the zones all the time. Innocent street people didn't mind being caught in a sweep that left them sitting a night or two in a detention center. Why should they? It was a way to get food and shelter. But shadowfolk couldn't afford the attention. Fortunately, most sweeps were perfunctory things, and Sam's identities would easily stand the cursory scrutiny likely from a cop's scanpad. Cog had assured him that Smith and his friends were solid, up through a third-tier backcheck. They ought to be the cost had been so high that Sam had been forced to ask Hart for the nuyen to finance the panzer run that got him to Denver. When he picked up the data at the prearranged drop, he saw that he'd be doing most of his looking in the Ute Council Zone. Most of Dodger's names were Utes or people associated with the tribe. Sam didn't want to run the zone boundary until after dark, so he had time to kill. He spent a while at a library terminal getting familiar with the city's layout. It had once been straightforward and mostly rational, but since the breakup of the United States and the partitioning of Denver, any semblance of urban planning had gone by the boards. Each zone had dealt in its own way with the rebuilding of the city. Nevertheless, it looked to Sam as though you could always tell which direction was what as long as you could get a view of the Rocky Mountains to the west.

  Toward dusk, Sam's wandering led him to a park near the big, blocky building that had been the natural history museum. It was still a museum, but its exhibits now dealt almost exclusively with Indian culture. He thought about checking to see what they had on Howling Coyote, but seeing that he would need to use one of his credsticks for the admission fee, he decided against it. Too much of a tourist thing. Smith and his friends were locals.

  So he sat on a sloping hill and looked out across the meadows and trees. The natural space was so extensive that he suspected it had been enlarged from the days when Denver had belonged to the United States. He had a harder time imagining a U.S. city leaving enough space to let the deer he had glimpsed roam free. The coming night was enlivening some of the animals in the nearby zoo and he heard an assortment of roars and bellows. He wondered if it was feeding time. Looking at the mixed crowds passing through the park, he knew it would be soon. For the wild animals of the streets and the human hunters that stalked the parklands, anyway.

  Sam assessed the people playing at sports, jogging along the pathways, wandering along the walks, and sitting on the grass as he was. Visually, he fit in with most of the passersby. Though bolstered weapons were not universal, many of the people he observed wore them. His own Narcoject Lethe wouldn't look out of place, but that was no surprise, for he had checked the firearms regulations before leaving Seattle. What he wasn't used to seeing were the many people in leathers and synthleathers. Even with all the knots and talismans tied into the fringe of his jacket, Sam looked right at home. A lot of the locals had good luck charms hanging froTh their clothes or incorporated as paintings or beadwork. The Indian fashion craze was even stronger here than in Seattle, and the Plains Indian style more common. With the Sioux in charge of the zone, that certainly made sense.

  Night was the best time for shadow work. Soon it would be time to cross into the Ute zone. But then what? He had some digging to do, but that wasn't necessarily night work. A lot of the people he wanted to talk to were probably day folk. Certainly, they held SIN numbers and went dutifully to work the way Sam once did. He didn't want to wait another day to get started, but how to do it?

  Sarn wished Hart were here. She knew Denver. He sorted through the credsticks, looking for the one she had given"him. It held the entry codes to a safehouse whose address she had made him memorize. She had only told him of the one place, but Sam was sure she knew more. With Denver divided into zones, each the responsibility of a different government, a single hiding place didn't seem sufficient. Though most of Hart's background was still a mystery to him, he knew she was a shadowrunner of international repute. Not to have a refuge in each of Denver's jurisdictions would have left her too vulnerable. She simply hadn't shared everything with him. A hedge against the future, he supposed. He hoped it was one she'd never need. Sam didn't want to lose her. He was happy in her company, as though she were the complement to his spirit. He trusted her with his secrets. Why didn't she trust him? Was he doing something wrong? Maybe if they had some time together, away from the shadows. But that wasn't likely to happen until Janice was cured.

  His own worries seemed so petty compared to
what Janice was going through.

  He wanted to call Ghost and find out how she was doing, but he couldn't, of course. Ghost and Janice were somewhere in Salish-Shidhe Council lands and out of regular communication. They had all agreed that would be best. No one wanted Council troops tracking transmissions. Ghost would be making irregularly spaced reports like the one that had been waiting for Sam at the drop. But those messages were so frustrating. There was no way to carry on a conversation, no way to assure Janice that he was doing his best.

  The sun had vanished behind the mountains now, and night was finally settling into place. It was time to go. Sam got to his feet and started down to the path that curved around the pond. He joined the folk leaving the park, abandoning it to night and the predators who only prowled in the dark. He had so little time, and so much to do.

  Neko Noguchi was pleased with himself. He had acquired information without a hitch in the acquisition run. It wasn't on the topic for which the elf paid the highest premium, but it was still eminently salable. That, however, was not the cause of his rejoicing. One did not get excited over the expected. The impending disposition of his haul was another matter. He had gotten past the middle man.

  Cog had declined involvement when Neko had told the fixer's agent (unfortunately not the delightful Mo-nique) that he had come into possession of "more of the same." The fixer had arranged for a direct contact with the decker elf, who had asked Neko to continue his investigations, no doubt believing, as Neko intended, that tfeko meant the stuff had been acquired from Grandmother. Though his plan worked, it surprised Neko that the fixer stepped aside so easily. His fear of angering Grandmother must be very great. Cog's anger would also be real if he ever learned that Neko's latest offering had been obtained without coming anywhere near Grandmother's widespread connections. That didn't count the subject of the investigation, however, for one could not do much of anything in the world without a connection to Grandmother. But though agents and subjects were very different matters, no fixer liked to be tricked into losing his percentage.

  It had been too easy, but Neko wasn't worried. Cog might get mad if he found out, but he would take no action. Neko was too good a source. A few bargains and a freebie or two would placate the fixer. "Oil in the works," as Cog himself liked to say. Biz was biz, one thing that Cog understood best. He wouldn't like it, but he would understand.

  Neko negligently flipped the chip case as he watched the crowds. So many good little salarymen from all over the world, rushing about their oh-so-ordered lives and rubbing shoulders with the street people and the proles. He had heard that the Enclave had not always been this way. Oh, rich and poor sharing sweat, for sure. That was eternal in the cramped streets. But the" oldsters said the population had once been almost exclusively Chinese, with only the occasional foreigner.

  It was hard to imagine now. The enclave had become truly international, with its balance of round Chinese faces, sleek Japanese visages like Neko's own, the angular gauntness of the Caucasians, and the occasional darkness of Africans and other Blacks become so natural a part of the city's character. How could it ever have belonged to the Chinese?

  Whatever its history, Neko savored the city now. It was said that if half the Enclave's population were to come to street level all at once, they would suffocate in the closeness. It was an exaggeration, of course, but a good image for the teeming multitudes, shoulder to shoulder and always moving. All those ears, and none remained still long enough to hear. So many eyes, fixed on sights other than him. He loved it.

  The street telecom by which he stood chirped. He slid away from the wall and leaned into the privacy shield. He had already installed an override on the telecom vid pickup so he couldn't be seen unless he wished to be. With a flick of a ringer, he activated the circuit. The screen remained black, but he said "Moshi, moshi," anyway.

  "State your business," responded a voice fuzzed with electronic distortion. A cautious one, this elf.

  "You got the spec on the first call. Along with the rules. You want transfer, or do I find another market?" That was a bluff. Neko didn't know anybody who would want the stuff. He could most certainly find someone, but the time it took would devalue the information. As always, realizing maximum profit required a fast deal. He thought he'd hosed it, but at last the screen flickered and the head and shoulders of an elf appeared in three-quarter view. The hair was shorter and styled differently from the virtual image Neko had seen, but the turn of the pointed ears, the long, straight line of the nose, and the slim line of the jaw were familiar. A datacord arced from the elf's far temple toward a spot beneath the image area. Overly cautious, this elf, but in another way bold, if he thought to break the unwritten rules of the not-place by offering a modified virtual image when he visited. Neko decided to test the sensitivity of that issue with a probe for a reaction.

  "You look a bit different from your virtual image. New dye job?" he asked.

  "Slave to fashion, you know," the elf said with forced nonchalance. He remained icily calm, though. "Verily, I'm forwarding payment,"

  "Wiz. Callback in ten," Neko told him, cutting the circuit without waiting for a response or protest. Keeping them off guard was a way to stay in control. Neko didn't like things he couldn't control.

  Ten minutes later, after Neko had confirmed the funds transfer, the elf was back on the line. "Trusting, chummer," Neko told him. The elf smiled slyly. "Don't think a decker like myself could not recover those funds if your offering proved false. Verily, I'm better than that."

  If the elf was a member of the club that played in the not-place, it was probably so. Neko decided to transfer the funds to hardcopy as soon as he broke connection. Better yet, he'd place the order from the next phone while transferring the now paid-for goods. "Ready to receive?" "Affirmative."

  "Look, chummer. I'll slot the chip and send the data hard-shelled. Code three-seven. How about you stay on the line and let me know it got through." "Very well."

  "Wiz." That'll give me time to stash the loot. Neko slotted the chip and started the transfer as promised. He was pocketing half a dozen certified credsticks that had come tumbling from the delivery slot more like rolls of candy than the bottled wealth they were when the elf came back on the first telecom line. " 'Tis received complete, and the code checks.

  Contact me again in twenty-four hours. I may have further work for you."

  Neko let a little bit of his pleasure show, but concealed all of his surprise. "Frigid. Nuyen for news is a way of life. But do me a favor, chummer. Don't change your look between now and then. You elves all look alike to us norms. I almost didn't recognize you without the shag."

  "Don't worry about my looks. The credit's good. What more do you need?"

  "To do biz? Just the transfer, chummer. Yours to mine. Keep it healthy and we're in biz."

  The circuit went dead. Neko shrugged and smiled at the blank screen. You didn't have to like them to do biz.

  Urdli stood in the doorway and looked across to the stretched-out form of the decker. Standing around the corner from where he lay were several medical machines gathered like mourners for a funeral. His thinness would have been suitable for an Australian, but this was a Caucasian elf, and so undernourished. But that was less of an abuse than the things implanted in the decker's body. Even the mundane should find such perversion disgusting. A chrome-headed viper kissed the port in the decker's head, while at the other end of the coiled length its tail disappeared into an artifact Estios had identified as a Fuchi 7 cyberdeck.

  Teresa O'Con nor busied herself changing the intravenous drip. It seemed a waste of effort and materials. More than twelve hours had passed since the decker had touched the cyberdeck keyboard. From what Urdli had heard about such things, it must mean that the decker's brain was no longer in control, if anything remained of its higher functions. The subjective journey through cyberspace still required the physical manipulation of computer interface devices. "Unhook the machine," he ordered.

  O'Connor looke
d at him with wide eyes. "No," she said with uncommon vehemence.

  "I will wait no longer. There are questions he must answer, assuming anything is left in there."

  "Dodger's not brain-dead." Teresa's voice betrayed her concern. Perhaps trying to convince herself, she pointed at the monitor, whose obscure graphs and numbers meant nothing to Urdli. "There's activity at all levels. He's still alive and aware. He's just… lost."

  "In the Matrix?" "I think so."

  "Not possible. The Matrix is no true reality. Either he is in command of his brain, or not. If so, once the connection is severed, his awareness will be forced to return to the real world. If not, the matter will be resolved."

  "Maybe. I don't know. His condition is not normal. His theta rhythms are grossly out of synch with normal decking activity. If we sever the link, he might go catatonic."

  "I will take the risk." "Damn it! It's not your risk to take!" "Makkanagee morkhan, I will do it myself." As Urdli took the first step into the room, O'Connor came from behind the couch to place herself between him and the decker. By the defensive stance she took, he saw how apt was the name he had called her, for her Shatatain stance showed her well below his own competence in the art of carromeleg. "Laverty does not oppose me. By standing in my way, you break your bond as milessaratish, staining his honor while gaining none for yourself. You will fall."

  "I'm not milessaratish, so leave the professor out of it. This is between you and me. I won't let you touch Dodger."

  Her defiance was annoying. "By denying the bond to Laverty, you remove restraint from me. Out of consideration for him, I might have only incapacitated you, but now you have offended me with your opposition. You cannot stop me. You can buy only the slightest delay with your life."

  He took his stance, and he saw in her eyes the realization that she was indeed facing a superior. Surprisingly, her rigidity slackened into a more natural defensive posture. That would make her a more difficult conquest, but though delayed, the outcome would be the same. He slid forward a pace and studied her non-reaction. More difficult, indeed. The appreciation of imminent death had brought her to zathien. Her unresolved stillness of spirit offered danger and unpredictable responses. He centered himself, seeking his own grasp of zathien from which to answer her. In the face of her resolution, the completeness eluded him. He slid forward another pace, determined to overmatch her transcendental state with his skill. The clash never began. "What's going on?"