Find Your Own Truth

by Robert N. Charrette

  “Time to fall back and regroup?” Dodger asked.

  “You know what to do, Dodger.”

  “Verily. Implementation shall take but an elementary command. Fear not, Sir Twist. The good brothers shall receive their recall orders before the padre can reach them. He, too, shall receive a summons home. They shall not be around to interfere.”

  “Will they suspect?”

  “For shame, Sir Twist. Though I cannot bespeak the activity of their paranoia, I assure you that they shall not see through my deception until they confront their superior in Rome. By then it will be too late for them to interfere. There is, however, another matter.”

  Sam didn’t know what could be worse than tonight’s disaster, but Dodger’s grim expression promised more calamity.

  “I don’t want to know, so you’d better tell me.”

  PART 2

  Look Within Yourself

  15

  The cottage was Hart’s private hideaway in the mountains north of Saint Helens. Dodger hadn’t wanted to use it, suggesting instead that they hold their conference somewhere in the woods. Pointing out the threat of inclement weather, Sam had overruled him. The air in the one-room cabin was too warm for comfort, but the windows had to be shut against the driving rain. The rising scent of damp earth and wood competed with the sweaty odor of tightly packed people. The table that normally dominated the cabin’s center was shoved to one side and piled with the runners’ gear, but that still left the room crowded. Sam’s agitated attempts at pacing only made it worse. Hart and Dodger were constantly having to remove their feet from his path or have them trod upon by the distracted Sam. At length he halted, facing the blank log wall that was the cabin’s back.

  “It’s not doing any good putting it off, Sam. None of us likes it any better than you do.” Hart’s voice was full of concern for him, her tone belying the content. “We all wanted to see Janice saved, but it looks like only one way is left.”

  “No.” Sam spun and faced her. “There is a way to defeat the wendigo. I felt it during the ritual. I know it’s still possible for her to change.”

  “Even with Rinaldi’s help, you couldn’t design a ritual to do it.”

  “We didn’t have the power.”

  “We’ve been through that.”

  “And I still say that the ritual failed because I’m not powerful enough. We need a stronger shaman to perform the ritual.”

  Hart exchanged a glance with Dodger, then sighed. “When we started this, you wanted to get other people out of it.”

  “That was before I knew I couldn’t do it alone.”

  “You couldn’t do it with Rikki and Manx, either.”

  “The ritual never really drew on their power. Besides, they were just small-time. I picked them because they would go along, not because they were really good shamans.

  “Who could we get?” Sam found his companions’ faces closed to him. “Come on, you two. You’ve both been in the shadow trade a lot longer than I have. Who do you know? Who’s the most powerful shaman around?”

  “So you think power’s the only problem now.”

  “I think it’s the critical factor.” The ritual had been well designed. What else could have been lacking? “So who might have enough power? How about the archdruid of England?”

  Hart chuckled sourly. “An unlikely source of help, considering last year’s events.”

  “Don’t you think they’d be grateful for our help in disposing of their renegades?” Sam asked.

  Shaking his head. Dodger said, “I believe their point of view would be somewhat different. Considering our complicity in abetting the escape of a certain wendigo, they might actually align us with the villains against.” Turning to Hart he asked. “What about Dr Kano at CalTech?”

  She shook her head. “A theoretician, mostly.”

  “Well, Mistress, is there not a theory problem as well?”

  “Our local expert seems to think not, but I’m afraid there still exists a serious question of practical knowledge.” She turned to Sam and gave him a sad smile.

  “Not to slight your talent and diligence, but you haven’t been a practicing shaman for very long. Mastering the Art, whatever the tradition, does not come quickly or easily. The problem with the ritual may not even be what you think it is. You might have all the raw power you need and just not know how to channel it. This transformation magic of yours may just be too subtle.”

  “And how would I know?”

  “By learning more.”

  “Janice doesn’t have the time.”

  “Always in a hurry.”

  Sam thought that remark unfair. “I spent a year working with Rinaldi to develop that ritual. I’d hardly call that rushing.”

  “But it didn’t work.”

  “It could have worked. It should have.” Visions of Janice and the dead dzoo-noo-qua swam before his eyes. “We’ve got to hurry now, whether I want to or not. Janice is succumbing to the wendigo nature. We’ve got to find someone who can do the ritual properly as soon as possible. We’ve got to enlist the help of a shaman who has the power, experience, and skill we need.”

  Hart gave an exasperated sigh. “Why not just ask for Howling Coyote? He certainly fits ...”

  A sudden scrape and the crash of Dodger’s chair on the floor interrupted her remark. Finishing his abrupt rise, the elf stalked to the door and flung it open. He stared out at the rain.

  Sam looked to Hart, who looked as surprised as he felt. “What’s the matter, Dodger? Do you know this Howling Coyote?”

  The decker’s voice was soft, almost inaudible over the sound of the downpour. “I think he’s dead. ’Twould be better ’twere so.”

  When it was obvious Dodger would say no more on the subject, Sam whispered to Hart, “Do you know why he reacted like that?”

  She shook her head.

  “What could it be about this Howiing Coyote? The name’s familiar, but I can’t seem to place it.”

  “Been neglecting the historical side of your studies again?”

  Sam could see by her half smile that she noticed the heat that would be reddening his cheeks above his beard.

  “Is the name Daniel Coleman any more familiar?”

  “The Ghost Dance prophet?”

  “None other." Dodger announced, forcing himself back into the conversation. His back remained turned to them. “Coleman was a charismatic firebrand, the leading light of the movement that resulted in the end of the United States of America, the Dominion of Canada, and the Republic of Mexico. A very influential villain. I heard him speak in the broadcast in which the Ghost Dancers took responsibility for the volcanic eruption that buried Los Alamos.”

  “He must have made quite an impression." Han said. “You couldn’t have been more than a kid.” 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 th
e 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, I’ve 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 youd 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 Taimgire 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 I’ve 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. “I’ve got to grab on to something. Otherwise Janice will 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 voice 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.

  16

  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 Countermeasures, 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.”