Find Your Own Truth

by Robert N. Charrette

“If a wendigo hasn’t killed, the curse isn’t complete. The sins can be forgiven and her soul can still be saved.”

  “Sin? Soul? Paleface, you’re not talking sense. I don’t walk the Jesus road. Found out real early that stuff don’t mean drek on the streets. Last time I turned my cheek, I had to get it replaced.” Ghost shook his head. “Wendigos eat people. You’re talking real bad biz.”

  The Indian’s reaction was no more than Sam could reasonably expect. “But we’re bringing her here to cure her.” he said.

  “Now you’re talking crazy. Can’t be done. Anybody could turn back even an ork, the docs and whitecoats woulda been all over them in millisecs, right after the media hounds. Whole world would know how to do it. Ain’t no pills, surgery, or drugs can do it.”

  “We’ve got a way. We’re going to use magic.”

  Ghost spat.

  “I know you don’t like magic. I’m not asking you to take part in the ritual. We just need somebody to hide her safely until we can do the magic. She’s my sister, Ghost. I’ve got to try. I thought you’d understand.” Sam was losing track of the argument as his emotions caught up with him. “We can’t bring her into the plex; there are too many people. But she’s got to be present for the ritual. There’s no other way to do it. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “The odds get too bad, a smart man doesn’t gamble.” Ghost started to walk away

  “I really thought you might help." Sam muttered, almost to himself. “She’s Wolf totem.”

  Ghost turned. “You’re desperate crazy, white man, but you’ve got cojones. I might be a little crazy, too. You know. Grandfather Wolf don’t like cowards, and he really hates people who run out on the pack.”

  “You weren’t running out. I’m not part of your tribe. Neither is Janice. And I know you’re anything but a coward.”

  “Not you I’m worried about, paleface.” Ghost lowered his voice. “You aren’t scamming? She really is Wolf. You swear as a shaman?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Fraggin’ drek, but you don’t make it easy." Ghost said, head tilted toward the sky. “You know, paleface, Grandfather Wolf don’t like murderers or cannibals either. So maybe there’s hope for her. Maybe you really can do something for her. How much nuyen did you say?”

  “I didn't, but it’s not much. Fifty K. And favors. I’ll owe you big, Ghost.”

  “Don’t worry, paleface." the Indian said, rubbing his chin reflectively. “If this thing blows up in our faces, it’ll be more than you can pay.”

  10

  Janice astrally scouted the area around the aircraft. As promised, she found only three people waiting for her. One she recognized instantly as Sam. Next to him stood an elven woman who seemed vaguely familiar. The third member of the welcoming committee was some kind of razorguy, his aura darkened in places by cyber-enhancements.

  Had she really expected a trap? Sam was too honest to betray her. At least the Sam she had grown up with was honest. But that Sam wasn’t a street shaman and a shadowrunner. He had changed, but how much?

  From her own experiences, she knew some changes were bigger than others.

  She returned to her body and rose from the travel couch. The chair had been tight, not made for someone of her bulk. Her muscles relaxed gratefully. The vanishing aches and pains reminded her how little she belonged in the world of the norms. She thought about tearing the door from its hinges to express her frustration and anger. It would make a flashy entrance, but it wouldn’t really reduce the stress left from the trip. She opened the hatch as meekly as any ordinary passenger.

  With the first whiff of the local air, she felt better. The Salish-Shidhe breeze was full of the good scents of a forest—much more pleasant than the sterile, machine-purified air of the aircraft.

  Sam and the woman stepped forward to greet her, but the razorguy hung back, watchful. When Janice saw the elf with her mundane eyes, she knew why the woman’s aura had seemed familiar. This was the same elf who had helped Sam kill Dan Shiroi.

  Janice didn’t give Sam a chance to even say hello.

  “Still hanging with the same armful, I see. You two serious, or are you just rubbing my muzzle in it?”

  Sam stopped, open-mouthed. The elf answered for him.

  “My name is Hart, Janice. No one here means to offend you.”

  “I know who you are. And you call me Shiroi, elf.”

  “That was the wendigo’s name." Hart said.

  Janice showed her teeth. “I’m a wendigo.”

  The elf shut up. She looked offended and maybe a bit nervous. Good. Janice hoped she made the elf real nervous.

  “So, Mr. Big Time Shaman, where’s your ritual team? Are they lost, or are you? This don’t look like a volcano.”

  Sam looked annoyed. That pleased her. Why should this be easy on anyone?

  “We’re not doing the ritual tonight." he said. “Drek!” Didn’t he understand what he was doing by hauling her down here? She had hoped that if she humored him, he’d be satisfied and leave her alone. She had thought she could hold out for a day or two, long enough for him to see the foolishness of his plan and for her to get back to the fastness before the hunger became overpowering. “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to take the chance that something would go wrong slipping you into Council lands. The ritual would be ruined if some Council trackers stumbled into the middle of it. Besides, the moon will be full two nights from now, and the magic will be more potent if the ritual is performed then. It’ll also give you some time to learn your part.”

  How many more little surprises was he going to spring? “You didn’t say I had to do anything.”

  “Transformation magic is more powerful if the subject is willing and involved.”

  She heard herself growl and realized that no longer was her annoyance feigned. “Do I have to believe it will work?”

  “No. But it would help.”

  She sat down on the loam. This wasn’t working out as she had thought. But then, when had anything ever gone right? When Dan was taking care of her, was when That had been the only time she had been really happy since before her parents had died. Everything in between had been hollow, almost as hollow as her life now.

  From the corner of her eye she could see Sam fretting, probably trying to decide how long to let her stew. After a few minutes, Hart poked him in the ribs. They exchanged a glance, and he nodded and addressed her.

  “Janice, I realize that it wasn’t easy for you to come. The trip must have been uncomfortable, but the plane was the best we could manage. You’re tired.” He placed a satchel by her side. “When you’re rested, take a look at the chips in the reader. They’ll explain some of the fine points of the ritual. Your part is highlighted. It’s not big, but it’s important. I’d go over it with you now, but there are still a few more things to be taken care of in the plex. We’ve got to get back there.”

  The plex? She never wanted to see another metroplex. They were dirty and smelly, but most of all they were crowded with people. All those stinking, noisy people. All that meat. No, she remonstrated with herself. That’s not the way to think. “You said no cities." she snapped.

  “Sorry." he said quickly. “I meant Hart and me. You’ll stay here with Ghost, and he’ll take you to the rendezvous point on the lower slopes of Mount Rainier. We’ll meet again in two days just after sundown. Okay?”

  What choice did she have? “You didn’t leave room in your plan for me to object.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Sam reached out to touch her. He was hesitant, as though undecided whether to stroke her like a furry pet, pat her like a little sister, or just lay a reassuring hand on her. In the end, he tried a little of all three. Most likely he meant to be affectionate, but he rumpled her fur the wrong way. Worse, she felt the trembling of his hand and saw the fear in his eyes. He showed some courage, at least. His woman didn’t dare come near enough to touch. God, who was he to call himself family, then act like all the other
hateful norms?

  She didn’t watch them climb into the aircraft, but then she looked up in time to set; them appear in the cockpit. Sam settled into the pilot’s couch. As he went through the motions the aircraft engines revved, twirling the props faster and faster until the low-slung body lifted from the field. Then the plane cleared the trees, the nacelles rotating to bring the props down for horizontal flight. The craft disappeared into the night, its sound fading as it drew further away.

  When had Sam learned to fly?

  Their departure left her alone with the razorguy Sam had called Ghost. He was staring at her while she observed him covertly. To judge from his looks and his dress, he was an Indian. It didn’t surprise her that he seemed reluctant to give up his place near the trees. For generations out of mind, Indians had been telling tall tales of the wendigo. He probably believed them all.

  He’d been left to take care of her. As if she needed a norm, even an enhanced one, for a babysitter. She probably could move through the forest better than he could. She was stronger, likely faster, and had certain supernormal advantages that not even the best cyberware could reproduce. What good was he, except as a local guide? Most likely he was supposed to keep her from eating any people she happened upon. Did Sam really think one razorguy could stop her?

  The clearing had long since settled back into its nightly cycle of sound and activity before he moved. Leaving his spot near the tree he crossed the grass silently, so silently that his steps did not disturb the raccoon come to investigate the satchel Sam had left. He squatted a half-dozen meters away. Did he know how well she could see him?

  “I’m not exactly contagious, you know.”

  Her voice startled the raccoon, who fled. The razorguy showed no reaction save to rise and move closer. Two meters. Just beyond the distance she could reach without getting up. The razorguy had gauged her length of arm well. He remained silent.

  “Nothing to say?” Nothing was what he said. She repeated her question in Japanese and Spanish, with no better result. This new irritation was just one more added to the experience of her trip. “Can you even talk?”

  Unspeaking, he stared at her. She decided shed seen enough of him and turned her head away. Minutes passed and the raccoon approached again, dithering over whether to approach and make another attempt to investigate the intriguing satchel. It had just made up its mind when the Indian spoke and sent it scurrying off again.

  “You are a shaman?”

  Startled herself by his sudden speech, she answered simply and honestly. “Yes.”

  He was quiet for more minutes. When he spoke again, she was ready for the abruptness but not the content of his question.

  “Is it true you follow Wolf?”

  “Oh, you mean is Wolf my totem?”

  He nodded. Well, two could play at the laconic game. “Yes." she said.

  Ghost grunted and stood up. “It’s a long way to Rainier. Sam said we have only the night for traveling. We should start.”

  “What, no vehicle?”

  “Too conspicuous.”

  “And that plane wasn’t?”

  “A bribe to an air traffic controller makes it easy for a plane not to appear on a radar screen.”

  “What about the noise?”

  “People hear a plane in the night, they think nothing of it. It’s in the sky, far away. A car or bike is much nearer and might bring unwelcome visitors. People pay attention. Wouldn’t want to drive through the forest, though, even during the day. This terrain will turn good machines into spare parts.”

  “So we walk.”

  Ghost gave her a ragged grin. “Run. If you can.” She rose to her feet. She smiled back, careful not to expose her fangs. “Try and keep up. You’re the one who’s supposed to know where we’re going.”

  They set out She started with a pace that would quickly tire a norm, but he kept up. His muscles moved in smooth, clean precision, pumping beneath his bronzed skin. The way he avoided trees and brush told her that he could see in the dark, too After a while she slowed down. Weak from hunger, she wasn’t in as good shape as she had thought. And without knowing how far they were to travel, she thought it best to conserve her strength.

  After about an hour, they flushed a deer. It was a young buck, antler buds still in velvet. He rushed from their path and Janice sprinted after him, giving it no opportunity to get far With a howl, she pounced and bore the buck down with her weight. She bashed one of its forelimbs with a clenched paw, and felt the bones snap under her blow The buck sounded his pain. Gripping one of the flailing hind limbs with one hand, she held the beast down with the other. A tug and a twist and she ripped its hind leg free.

  The scent of hot blood filled her nostrils, followed by the warm, full scent of fresh meat She sank her teeth in. The taste was weak and vaguely unpleasant, but it was food She ripped another mouthful from the haunch.

  The deer still struggled, trying to regain its feet, making itself bleed to death faster. Didn’t it know enough to accept its fate? She chewed the hot flesh, feeling the juices slide down her parched throat.

  She looked op from her meal Ghost had caught up and was staring at her.

  “Don’t worry, man. It’s just a deer.”

  His face remained expressionless and he said nothing.

  Somehow, that made it worse. She threw down the haunch, stood, and walked away. At the base of a forest giant, she crouched again and leaned against the bole of the tree. She hugged her arms around herself. No, don't worry, man. Leave that for me. Hunger gnawed at her, awakened by her brief, unsatisfying feast. Her stomach tightened into painful knots. All she could think about was Ghost’s smooth muscles rippling as he ran. Like the deer. Too like the deer.

  11

  “Mr. Urdli. Mr. Walter Urdli. Please meet your party at Baggage Carousel Number Three.”

  Urdli looked up in annoyance at the speaker calling his name. He was barely out of the runway from the monstrous aircraft that had carried him over the Pacific, and his stomach was still queasy. He hated air travel. He visited the rest room before going to the infoboard for directions to Baggage Carousel Three. The foolish machine insisted on giving him directions to Carousel Fifteen, asserting that his luggage would be arriving there. He circumvented the paternalistic thing by calling for a general map—with routes to the baggage area.

  The waiting space around Carousel Three was deserted except for two young elves, a dark-haired male and a fair-haired female. Though he had never seen either one before, they seemed to recognize him as he approached. That was not surprising. For all the elves in the crowd and all their variety of skin tone and shape, he was unique. Some had his dark skin color and some his thin build, but none had the combination or matched his height. Anyone who knew his physical description should be able to pick him out.

  He greeted them in formal Sperethiel. Their responses were adequate, but they mismanaged the proper forms of address. Seeing them insufficiently versed in the old tongue to make conversation enjoyable, he switched to English.

  “You are with the Council?”

  “My name is Estios, sir. This is O’Connor. We are aides to Professor Sean Laverty.”

  While considering the implications, Urdli looked them over. O’Connor was comely enough, he supposed, though he had never really cared for the northern phenotypes. Like her companion, she wore garb whose fine material was tailored to hide her weapons from one unaccustomed to scenting the metal. Both were well groomed, and the man wore his hair cut short to reveal his ears, as some of the current crop of males seemed fearful of doing. Estios was tall for a Caucasoid elf, with the broad shoulders his kind developed in the course of mastering physical disciplines. Of course, the two of them would have hidden talents. Urdli inclined his head to meet the male’s gaze.

  “I am unaccustomed to dealing with inferiors. You will see to my luggage and take me to Laverty.”

  Estios’ expression remained polite, but a spark danced in his icy blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice r
emained calm and detached. The restraint pleased Urdli.

  “Your luggage will be taken care of, sir. This is not my job I was asked to inform you that the professor was unavoidably detained at the Royal Hill. He asked me to serve as your guide and to take you to the mansion, where he will join you as soon as possible. He thought that the most advisable course, since your message suggested discretion.”

  Urdli shrugged off his topcoat. It was warmer here than Down Under. He handed it to the female, who took it without a word of protest. “Then we shall leave this place.”

  “There is a car waiting, sir.”

  Urdli nodded. “We will not be driving through the city, will we? I saw it through the window of the plane. It is much given over to human architecture.”

  “Portland is a compromise, sir. The city houses most of the resettled human population of the former state of Oregon. Most of the buildings continue to provide for their needs. The High Prince’s Council considers this a reasonable arrangement, for the norms provide an important work force in the industries necessary to maintain the city as a contact point between Tir Taimgire and the rest of the world. However, since the recent trade agreements with the city-state of Seattle, Portland’s usefulness is declining. One day, the human presence may be eliminated completely, but for now the city remains a necessary evil.”

  “I do not like it.”

  Estios smiled coldly. “I understand, sir. We can take a more roundabout route and avoid much of the urban area.”

  “Do so.”

  The trip to the mansion was quiet, almost peaceful, for Laverty’s aides demonstrated minimal courtesy by offering no conversation once Urdli ignored their first few attempts. Estios was as good as his word. Urdli was not forced to see much of the ugly, squat human architecture.

  The mansion itself was in the human style; Urdli had forgotten just how unattractive it was. Its only saving graces were the superbly rendered gargoyles and the delicate tracery of protective sorceries. At least the gardens had grown into their promise. Urdli had the young elves lead him to the library, ignoring their protests that he should retire to his room and freshen up. Matters were advanced well beyond such niceties, and he intended to use his waiting time constructively. Laverty’s collection of books and manuscripts was even better than he had remembered. Perhaps there was some merit to relying on the written word instead of organic memory. He was deep into a disk copy of Vermis’ Liber Viridis when Laverty arrived.