Sam felt a shudder in the pavement caressing his cheek. Could the razorguys be carrying enough chrome to shake the earth where they ran? A delirious concept, but he was close to delirium. Concussion, he supposed. He rolled over onto his back.
It wasn’t the razorguys. The shudder increased in frequency and a grating rumble rose. The scarecrow elf was standing in the window of Weapon World, arms outstretched and glowing with the intensity of the mana gathered around him. He was singing, too, but Sam didn’t recognize the language.
The rumble grew to a roar and the street began to heave, stopping the advance of the razorguys as they fought to keep their balance. Facing stones from the surrounding buildings split off and plummeted to the street. A large piece struck one of the trench-coated muscleguys and squashed him like a bug. The others took cover, too unsettled by the massive magical manifestation to fire at the magician.
A wail from down the street drew Sam’s attention to the figure of Masamba standing there. The Black mage unleashed a bolt of amber energy that shrieked from his hands and burst into coruscating sparks against an invisible barrier surrounding the scarecrow elf. Encouraged by the arrival of their own magical support, the remaining razorguys opened fire.
Sam snatched the old bum’s serape and hauled him down. His reward was a kick and a complaint.
“Hey hey, what ya doing? I’m magic, you stupid Anglo. Ain’t gonna hurt me.”
Around them the apparent earthquake increased in fury. Dust from the falling bricks and building stones rose like a fog. It whirled and eddied in a wind that came from nowhere, but stubbornly hugged the ground to obscure vision beyond a couple of meters. Unable to target, the razorguys ceased their steady fire. Only when the swirling dust opened a fire lane did the guns speak. Cyan flashes of magical energy lit the dust clouds as they screamed in response to Masamba’s erratic barrage of amber bolts.
A brick crashed to earth near Sam’s head. Pain forgotten, he scrambled to his feet. The old Indian leaped up at his side, screaming taunts at the stones and daring them to hit him. Sam’s renewed attempt to restrain the old fool was aborted when the slim razorguy appeared wraithlike from the dust. He grabbed Sam’s jacket and lifted him bodily. The force of the muscle-guy’s rush slammed Sam against a wall. As his head rebounded, a gun muzzle poked into his throat, forcing his head back into another painful collision with the brick.
“Give it over and I’m gone. Keep it and you are.”
Jaw clenched by the pressure of the gun, Sam could barely answer. “I don't know what ...”
“Don’t jerk me, Verner.”
Sam felt the hard, cold barrel of the razorguy’s pistol slam against his temple. Before the pain ignited in its full fury, the muzzle was again under his chin. A hand slapped against his side.
“Frag! It’s gone!”
The pressure eased suddenly and Sam sank down, off balance. When the pain lessened, he struggled to his feet. The razorguy had vanished. Sam reached to his side where the street tough had struck him. There were slices in the leather of his jacket and his pants were ribbons over his hip, but he was slow to realize that he shouldn’t be feeling the leather or fabric at all. His satchel was gone. He remembered his slashing passage through the Weapon World window. The strap must have been sliced away then.
The wail of a siren pierced the howling wind. As it grew louder, Sam looked around desperately. The pouch had contained his identities, and the credstick key to Hart’s safe house. Somebody without a System Identification Number or any other means of identification wasn’t going to get along too well with the police, even if they hadn’t fallen for Masamba’s earlier ploy. Word was that they didn’t like; shadows in the Ute zone. And Sam was too deep in that zone to get out in a hurry on foot.
Flashes of magical energy continued to sear cyan and amber through the dust storm.
A hand gripped Sam’s arm. He twisted reflexively and struck out, relieved to feel the gripping hand release him. The target of his violence careened back into a wall and slid down in a disheveled heap.
The old man.
“Hey hey, Anglo. Some gratitude. Save ya from the rocks and ya slug me. Well, forget it. Find your own path.”
The old man dragged himself to his feet and started away.
Sam tried to see what was going on. He didn’t know what the two factions were after, or why they wanted it. From their earlier attention to him, it was something he had been carrying. Their sudden lack of interest in him indicated that he no longer had what they were fighting over. That was fine by him. In his current condition, even the loser of the fight would probably walk all over him.
The sirens grew louder.
There seemed nothing to gain and a lot to lose. He wouldn’t be able to recover his materials tonight, if ever. He staggered down the alley that had swallowed the Indian. Maybe the old sot really did know his way around the zone. The Indian might not volunteer any more aid after Sam’s reaction to his helping hand, but by following him Sam could at least escape the immediate effects of the battle. After that, who knew?
24
Hohiro Sato wanted the stone the moment he laid eyes on it, though he’d never liked opal much till now. The oily iridescence was not his style, which tended more toward the clarity and depth of ruby or emerald.
But this stone ... To see it was to want it. The opal had a magnetic attraction, almost as though it were somehow a part of him. Before, he had coveted it simply because Grandmother did. And the interest shown by the unknown faction told him it was a potentially powerful tool. But seeing it now, he wanted it for itself.
Its surface felt smooth, and was not cold as it appeared. It almost seemed alive under his hand.
He did not understand its potential, but he would. Someone would solve its riddles for him, and the power it represented would be his. How fortunate that one of Grandmother’s agents had perished in the incident with who or whatever had attacked Verner in the gun shop. It had made it that much easier to dispose of the other and to eliminate any immediate claimants for the prize.
Sato contemplated the store, scratching absentmindedly at an itch along his left forearm The stone was magic, no doubt about that. He could almost feel its power. Very powerful magic, indeed, to draw the attention of the magically powerful party that had ambushed Verner. Masamba swore that the magician he had faced was at least a sixth rank initiate. The term didn’t have any real meaning for Sato, beyond the feet that Masamba believed he had faced a wizard more powerful than himself. And that meant the third party was well supplied with magical resources. The level of magic involved in the Weapon World battle was well beyond that of which Verner was believed capable.
Sato wondered how much information Grandmother had on this third party. Had she known of the opposition before she sent him after the stone? Had he only been a stalking horse for her? If so, he would find a way to make her regret it.
Flakes of dried skin caught under his fingernails. He rubbed his thumb across his finger tips to brush the detritus to the floor.
He stared at the stone, ensnared by its beauty. It was more beautiful now that he owned it. What might not be his once he learned how to make best use of it?
Crawling higher on his arm, the itch became intolerable. Without thinking, he rolled back his sleeve to get at the irritation. When he finally tore his eyes from the stone to examine the source of the prickling sensation, he stared with horror.
The hard, lumpy thing that had been his arm was black and glistening with oozing liquid where it had emerged from the brittle flakes of epidermis. The streaks exposed by his scratching were already hardening to a dull, waxy shine. Two long, hook-taloned appendages replaced his fingers, and a smaller version lay slightly offset in a parody of a thumb.
His stomach churned and he retched. But he didn’t scream at the horror that was emerging from his own body. At this new manifestation of the taint. No, he didn’t scream. He reached for the telecom with his human arm and opened a circuit to his administrativ
e assistant.
“Get me Soriyama." he ordered. “And send in Masamba and Akabo.”
* * *
Dodger had never moved so swiftly through the Matrix, nor so easily. The pulse of datalines was brighter, the clarity of icons sharper, and the blackness between all the places and passages of man’s creation was darker. The electron skies spread over a horizon as limitless as his imagination. No meat experience could match this transcendental adventure.
Distant messages, falsely urgent, impinged on his joy, but he banished them by turning his eyes to the wonders of cyberspace. This was the freedom and power he had sought for years, the oneness with the Matrix.
And she was with him.
* * *
Hart looked into the fixer’s face and searched for any clue to deception. She was disappointed. Everything he had said was true, or so he believed. They had worked uncounted shadowruns over the years, and she trusted him as much as she could anyone in her business. She knew of no reason he would deceive her. Worse, she didn’t know of any reason that he might be deluded.
“You’re sure there are three devices?”
“Three. Four. Five. What does it matter? But, yes, a minimum of three. All multiple-warhead. All conveniently forgotten by a well-paid weapons officer when the Americans left German soil for good.” For a moment the tiny old man seemed wistful, remembering Old causes. “They were the terrorist’s El Dorado for decades following reunification. A Barbarossa sleeping beneath the earth until the final reckoning. They were to be the great liberators, destroyers of the bonds that tied the Fatherland’s spirit.”
“You claim they’re real, then you call them a pipe dream. Make up your mind, Caliban.”
“Oh, they’re real enough.”
“But you can’t tell me where they are.”
He shrugged. “Deeper pockets than yours have asked, but I’d give it to you, my dear. I’m an old man now. I don’t have the strength for it. But I can’t sell or give away what I don’t have.” He chuckled dryly. “At least not to you, my brilliant student. Barbarossa will not awaken in my lifetime. Cosimo took the secret of the lost weapons to his grave when Mossad cornered his Fenris faction in Casablanca. His papers were all destroyed in the firestorm. There have been plenty of fakes over the years, but I’ve seen through them all. None ever had the marks.”
Hart leaned forward. “What marks? The wolf?”
“Of course, the wolf. But there were others.”
As he described them to her, she remembered what she had seen. Each detail fit. Her doubts had fled well before he finished.
So it was true. All of Caliban’s old hints had been true, except for the one that he knew the secret hiding place of the weapons. Like most runners in the European shadow world, she had grown up believing that if Caliban didn’t know, no one did. But somewhere, somehow, someone had found Cosimo’s legacy. The data Dodger’s contact had retrieved from Grandmother’s operation had included a map, but the accompanying text hadn’t specified the map’s purpose. Hart had almost missed the small symbol near Deggendorf. Dodger hadn’t recognized the stylized wolf head, but she had. She hadn’t wanted to believe the map could be real, but the details Caliban gave her left no room for doubt. Her worst fears were confirmed.
Sam had to be told, of course. But beyond him, who?
* * *
Sam awoke with a shock. The old Hummer was jolting him as it bumped its way down an embankment. Ahead and to the left were distant mountains, screened occasionally by the buttes of a badlands. The landscape was all dusty greens, multi-toned grays, and dusky purples that were deepening in tone as the sun sank lower in the sky.
He wasn’t in Denver anymore.
The ache in his head and the stiffness in his body told him that he hadn’t dreamed his travails in the Ute zone. In flashes, he remembered parts of his escape from the battle. The alley and the ever-louder sirens. The fugitive glimpses of a hunched figure in a serape. The muck and filth of a trash heap. Strong hands dragging him. An old surplus Hummer stacked with boxes and cans. Shadows, darkness, and light shot through with voices, gunshots, and chanting. Wind and cold, then wind and warmth.
Someone had rescued him and driven him away from danger.
Apparently that same someone had covered him with a cloth that had once been bright with color, but was now stained and filthy. Even though the wind of the Hummer’s passage drew most of the scent away, enough remained to tell Sam who had rescued him.
He turned his head to look at the driver. Sure enough, it was the old Indian. The driver’s reservation hat was tilted to shade his eyes from the setting sun, casting most of his face in shadow, but there was no mistaking him.
Sam squirmed to get a look behind him. The rear of the vehicle was full of supplies. They were alone. His movement attracted his companion’s notice.
“Hey hey, back in this world for a while?”
Sam’s attempt to reply in the affirmative came out as a croak.
“Canteen on the floor by your feet.”
On the third attempt, Sam convinced his body that it could bend forward and retrieve the canteen. The water was tepid and tasted of minerals, but his parched throat didn’t care. He splashed some into one hand and rubbed it on his face, wincing when he touched his scrapes. Nevertheless, he felt better than he expected, or deserved. Well enough to realize that last night’s—it was just one night, wasn’t it?—thoughts about the old man had been unduly unkind.
“I guess I owe you some thanks for pulling me out of that mess last night.”
“Yup.”
“Well, thanks.” That seemed the end of the conversation for a time. As the Hummer neared a broad river, Sam decided to try again. “Where are we?”
“Under the sky.”
“Oh.” He had been hoping for something a little more specific. Maybe the old man didn’t trust him. Introductions might break the ice. “I’m not from around here. Mostly, I live in Seattle. Out there, they call me Twist.”
“Yup.”
That was it? Maybe the old man thought Sam already knew who he was. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“That’s right.”
The hummer hit the edge of the river. Muddy drops churned up by the tires splashed against the windscreen. Sam was getting annoyed. “Well, what should I call you? ‘Old man’ doesn’t seem very polite.”
The old man shrugged. “Description’s always polite, Anglo. If you gotta problem with it, call me Dancey.”
“Dancey? As in Dizzy Dancey?”
“That’s me.” The Indian threw both hands into the air and bounced in his seat, chanting a few nonsense syllables. His motion sent the Hummer out of control. It swerved under the pressure of the water, then dipped as it struck a pothole. Water splashed up over the sill, wetting Sam’s leg with its cold mountain freshness. As Sam recoiled, Dancey returned his hands to the wheel and took control of the Hummer.
In the shadows of Denver Sam had heard about Dizzy Dancey, and none of it had been comforting. The old man had once been a hot shadowrunner who had hosed up badly and been caught by the Navajo Tribal Police. Whatever they were supposed to have done to him had left him slightly out of his head ever since.
The Hummer jounced out of the river and began to crawl up the long sloping embankment. It topped the rise, scattering a pair of small horned animals that ran like jackrabbits. The Hummer then bounced a dozen meters across the grassy prairie and onto the remnants of a road Dancey started to hum and seemed happier, as though the river had been a boundary beyond which he need not worry. The Hummer picked up speed.
“How’d we get here?” Sam asked “And where’s ‘here’ anyway?”
“Upcountry, Anglo. Safest place when the city gets hot. Things’ll cool in a while, then you can go back, if you’re crazy enough.”
“But I’ve got important things to do in the city. I’ve got no time to waste.”
“Think staying alive is wasting time?”
“No.”
“Good." Dancey pronounced with a confirming nod “Then shut up. Driving was easier when you were asleep.”
Sam followed his advice, more out of frustration and annoyance than anything else. He tried watching the scenery for a time, but his mind kept clouding. His nagging concerns wouldn’t let him go. He fidgeted, worried about Janice.
“Hey hey, Anglo. What’s so important about being in the city, anyway? Filthy place, not good for somebody like you.”
“I’m looking for someone to help my sister.” Dancey made an exaggerated show of looking in the back of the Hummer, then across the prairie. “Don’t see no sister.”
“She’s not around here. She can’t travel just now.”
“Hey hey, Anglo. Sounds bad. Ya got my sympathy. Family is real important, but you understand that. Don’t need no old man to tell ya that. What kind of doctor ya looking for?”
Sam hesitated. What did it really matter? Sam hadn’t gotten anywhere with his investigation. Maybe it was because he had been so closemouthed about why he was seeking Howling Coyote. Maybe if he had let it be known that it wasn’t political, he might have gotten help. If Dancey spread the word in Denver, it might even help. That is, if anyone took the old man seriously. “Not a doctor. A shaman. She’s got . . . magical problems.”
Dancey wheezed a laugh. “So you come looking for the tribal medicine men. Lotsa luck, Anglo.”
“Not just any medicine man. I’m looking for Howling Coyote.”
“Ain’t gonna find him in the city.” The old man laughed. “Ain’t gonna find him at all.”
“What do you mean?”
The old man pointed at the sky. “Good clouds today, Anglo. A man can see a lot in clouds. Things that aren’t there and things that are. Clouds change a lot. The stars, now. The stars are different. They’re always spinning, racing across the sky even when ya can’t see them. They don’t change much. At least not so a man can see. ’Cept for the felling stars. Flare, burn, and fall. Not much of a legacy. Ever see a star before it fell, Anglo?”
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