Into the Shadows

by Jordan Weisman

  Cursing under her breath, Emily helped me up off the floor, and we lurched unsteadily to the bed and collapsed. She pulled a blanket up over me and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at me closely. "You’ll be O.K., Grimley," she said, softness creeping into her voice.

  "I love you," I whispered.

  "What?"

  "I said, yes, it was worth it."

  "Shut up and sleep, deckhead,"

  I fell unconscious almost instantly. When I woke up briefly a few hours later, Emily was asleep, with her head on my chest, holding my hand in both of hers. I kissed the crown of her head, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. I slipped my free arm around her waist and held her to me. I was afraid to move or even to breathe, afraid I would do something that would break the spell. I wanted to stay awake for hours, feeling Emmie in my arms. I fought to keep my bruised eyelids open. It was only a matter of minutes before I lost the battle, slipping away into the warm embrace of sleep.

  When I finally awakened, it was late in the afternoon and Emily was gone. That evening went by in a blur of confusion and pain. I tried to examine Nadia Mirin’s file, but I was sore all over and had a terrible headache. My vision kept blurring in and out, and [ grew frustrated and irritable. I didn’t hear from Emily at all. Finally, I gave in and slept. The next morning. I called Miss Elizabeth.

  We had been examining the file for hours. Miss Elizabeth’s sapphire eyes probed the data mercilessly, prying out its secrets. This was a perfect file. Slick as glass. It told volumes of superficial information about Nadia, amounting to nothing at all. We determined that it had been assembled in Switzerland, only eight years ago. I was certain that it was as phony as Mr. Johnson’s plastic griri.

  While Miss Elizabeth stretched and rubbed her eyes, I regarded her appreciatively. She is tiny and beautiful, just slightly shorter than Emily. Her dress is immaculate and classic, like a high-level lady exec. Her etiquette is flawless, whether corporate, street, or tribal. She can charm almost anyone into complete confidence. She is a specialist. When hot-shot big-game hunters like myself come dragging our kills home in triumph, then sit staring at them in bewilderment, she is the one we call. She specializes in investigation, turning the most seamless of phony files inside out. She sees things we never even thought to look for. She is also Emily’s sister. This fact amuses me endlessly. Smiling. I looked at Miss Elizabeth, who was staring at the screen with accusing blue eyes. The fact that Miss Elizabeth’s lover is Erik the Engine, the biggest, most heavily chromed samurai in the ’plex, is one of the few things that amuses me still more.

  She had come to the end of the file for perhaps the hundredth time that night. She was looking at three discrete little pieces of program, looping back on themselves again and again. Miss Elizabeth scowled.

  "What is this, Grimley? It’s just nonsense. Almost looks like tiny pieces of corporate Ice."

  I smiled and handed her a soda. "Trophies, fair Elizabeth ."

  She looked at me severely. "What did you take, Jack?"

  "Why, El Toro’s ears and tail, senorita." I smiled at her innocently.

  She bounced a peanut off my head. "You are so weird!" Shaking her head. Miss Elizabeth went back to the beginning of the file.

  Knowing I could be of no use to her work. I retired to my reclining chair with a volume of Rudyard Kipling. Tansy leapt onto my lap and rolled up into a purring sphere. Halfway through "The Jungle Book, " I began to drift off.

  "There it is!" she squeaked. "Yes!"

  My eyes flew open. I dropped the book, and Tansy launched from my lap like a furry rocket. "What, my lady?"

  "Look!" cried Miss Elizabeth. "Do you see it? There!" Looking over her shoulder, I studied the screen. Yes, I saw it, suddenly plain as day. The smallest of chinks in the armor, the tiniest of telltale clues. I looked at her in disbelief. "You don’t suppose . . . Do you?"

  "Who else?" she said, almost impatiently. "Who else would have set it up this way?"

  She began to probe around the little section, cautiously, almost reverently. The minutes went by. feeling like hours. Though the room was cool, I felt a thin trickle of sweat run down my temple. Then, abruptly, she found it The "lock" on the program, baroque and beautiful, that was his signature.

  We looked at each other and grinned. "Mycroft!"

  I laughed in delight and disbelief. Mycroft. An all-time legend among deckers, he makes people like me and Valerie Valkyrie look like a pair of Porky Prynes. This Nadia Marin must be some important lady for Mycroft to have assembled her file. I hated to think what that must have cost somebody.

  I was quivering with excitement. This was like wiping the cobwebs from a painting found in an abandoned attic and discovering a Rembrandt. "Let’s crack it!" I said, laughing foolishly. "Let’s take it apart!"

  "Not now, Jack," said Miss Elizabeth, always sensible. "You need something to hold over their heads. And you don't need me for this one." She smiled sweetly. "You can bleed them dry for info like this. Buy me a burger, Grimley?"

  "Certainly." I stood up. stretched, and was reaching for my walking stick when a knock came at the door. Gripping the heavy wood of my stick, I went cautiously to answer it. After all, one never knows. With much bravado, I flung open the door to reveal Emily on the doorstep, looking at me with big, serious eyes. I was very surprised when she took my hand.

  "Jack, I need to talk to you. I mean, we need to talk. I have something to tell you." She glanced over my shoulder and smiled a little sadly. "Hi, Beth."

  "Hello, Emily. Wonderful news! That file is a mock-up and we know who did it." She laughed a malicious but charming giggle. "Mr. Johnson is about to start paying through the sinuses. Wanna get a burger with us?"

  "No thanks, Beth." Emily was still smiling, staring off into space. "I just came to see how Grimley was. He looks about as good as he gets." Miss Elizabeth laughed. Emily shook her head, like a dog shaking off unwanted drops of water. "I’ll see you deckheads later. Gotta buzz."

  Before I could say a word to stop her, she was gone.

  For the next three days, I was unable to reach Mr. Johnson, so I did something foolish, I went ahead and cracked the file. Three days. It took me that long, three days and three nights. I don’t think I slept a total of four hours. It was one of the most difficult, frustrating, and wonderful experiences of my life. Mycroft’s programming is beautifully ornate and complex, weaving together strands of data like a Bach fugue. When it finally opened to me like a butterfly stretching new wings, I wept tears of joy and relief. What it revealed was . . . astounding.

  Now I was on my way to meet Mr. Johnson. The address was not a bar this time, but a ridiculously expensive apartment building in one of the few remaining "nice" areas of the 'plex. One could even pick out the line of dirt that separated the clean streets of the wealthy district from the filthy ones of my own. I walked along briskly, turning up the collar of my morning coat against the biting wind. I entertained myself by looking for rats. Apparently, even rich people can’t keep the little rodents off their streets, but I must admit they looked much cleaner and healthier than the ones in my district. Most probably the results of a better diet. I laughed aloud.

  So did someone behind me.

  It was barely audible, a low chuckle, but I definitely heard it. "Who’s there?" I demanded, stomach lluttering uncomfortably. I scanned the street behind me, but saw no one. Finally, I turned and walked on. By the time I reached the address of the meet, I was almost convinced that I had imagined it.

  Mr. Johnson’s apartment was two rooms, much bigger than my own. An utterly featureless place, it had obviously been rented out for the sole purpose of conducting Business, for no one could have lived there. Its dazzling white and cream walls, carpet, and furniture were brand-new, and the abstract prints hung here and there looked like soda crackers. The suit fit right in, with his hideous artificial grin. He was pleased to receive Nadia Mirin’s file days ahead of our agreed deadline, but he didn't seem at all surprised to hear that it was a fa
ke. I lied, telling him I had yet to crack it. He unblinkingly accepted the amount I asked to do so. Once again, I had to conceal my considerable surprise. I had set the amount ridiculously high, in hopes of bargaining down to what I really wanted. Feeling very pleased with myself, I began to nibble expensive, real pistachio nuts from a little dish on the white coffee table. When I cracked them with my implanted fangs, Mr. Johnson gave me a horrified expression that made me feel even better. After handing me a large advance, he showed me to the door rather too quickly. I lingered in the entryway and chatted about the soda cracker art until he began to sweat.

  I waited till his eyes began to bulge, then took my leave. I reflected deeply on the long walk home, remembering the portrait of Nadia Mirin, her lovely green eyes and the sweet curve of her lips, I wondered if the amazing information in her file was true. I hoped I wasn’t helping someone kill her.

  I thought of Emily, too. Three days had passed since I had last seen her standing on my doorstep and looking at me with those strange, sad eyes. I had not heard from her since. I tried to call her, but she either wasn’t in or didn’t want to be disturbed. I was becoming afraid I would never see her again. Perhaps she had heard me when I slipped into twilight consciousness and told her that I loved her. Perhaps she had come over that night to tell me that she would always treasure me as a friend, but . . .

  Maybe she had lost her nerve. Not wanting to hurt me, she would continue to avoid me until I got the message. If I ever did see her. we would pass on the street, smile politely, make conversation ... I had a strange ache in my throat. I wondered if I were getting a cold.

  Again, I heard something behind me. Such a small noise, barely perceptible. A rat? I narrowed my eyes, refusing to give in to my paranoia as I resolutely continued down the street. There it was again, more distinct this time. A footstep. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one there. Taking a deep breath, I did not linger. I walked a long way, almost to my building, without hearing another sound. Then it was right behind me again, coming fast this time. It was so close I could hear its breathing. I whipped around, drawing the slender blade from my walking stick, just in time to see a shadow flicker into the alley. I felt strangely triumphant. I wasn't a complete nutter.

  It crossed my mind that I might have slipped up and left behind a little too much in NatVat. Corporations are most unforgiving. The sort of shadowy games that I and my kind like to play also put us at risk of angering some powerful Yakuza gang.

  I felt strangely calm. The thought of the Reaper walking at my side, ready to turn his blade was no longer frightening. I smiled tightly. Getting my guts wiped all over the ’plex would earn me an immortality that even a legion of Halloweeners with spray paint cans could never hope to achieve. I steeled myself. If I was going to die. I wanted to meet death face to face. Carrying the image of Emily in my heart like a knight with his lady's favor, I walked into the alley. Before I could even react, it was upon me.

  Something warm struck me in the center of the chest, knocking me backward and sending my blade flying away in the darkness. A small, solid body leaped heavily onto my stomach, straddling me and taking my breath away. Then small hands seized the sides of my head as the woman bent down and kissed me firmly on the lips. Smiling down at me, Emily reached into her battered leather jacket and withdrew from it the finest vat-grown red rose money could buy.

  TURTLE IN THE TOWER

  by Ken St. Andre

  I can see auras. It’s one of my talents as an elf and a sorceress. In the sprawl of Seattle, 2050, it’s not a very useful ability, but sometimes it does warn me about a person or tips me to a new chummer.

  He came out of the late afternoon fog, a big man with wide shoulders, lean hips, skin even darker than my own, dressed in a heavy overcoat and a waterproof cowl. Hands in his pockets, he moved slowly, all the while giving the impression that he might explode into action at any second. Part of that was in the hazy nimbus of colors through which I viewed him. I’ve never encountered a more confused spectrum around a human being. Cobalt blue served as a foundation for his soul, but it was shot through with jagged scarlet streaks indicating the violence so close to his surface, poisonous green for the fear that rode his shoulders like a monkey, indigo denoting a keen intelligence, sunny yellow splotches for humor, and permeating everything else, the steel-gray lambency of the mechanically augmented. Usually the half-dead machine men of this era don’t have much in the way of auric power, but this man’s lifeforce blazed so strongly that he stood out against the dirty murk of the fog like a flashing rainbow lantern. Feeling an attraction to him that was as strong as it was inexplicable. I decided to Speak.

  "Hey, mista, read yer fortune? Only ten nuyen ..." My voice sounded plaintive, even to me, and I must have looked like just another street beggar in my gypsy skirt and patched peasant blouse. His raincoat was far more appropriate to the drizzly Seattle scene, but we elves don’t suffer as much from the cold as do you mundanes. As he approached, the glossy black optics that replaced his eyes reflected my own image— a dark girl, too thin to be pretty, clad in rags and worn-out paint, whose short black hair formed tight curls against the big-brained elven skull. I was sitting on the stoop in front of Denton’s Lorestore, with the green leather bag carrying all the tools and talismans of my magical trade pushed behind me into a corner.

  A cold gust of wind from the sea blew a flurry of oily raindrops into my face. "Can we get out of the weather?" he asked.

  Sensing a sale, I stood up and gave him my best come-on grin. Already there was such empathy between us that I could actually feel that first faint stirring of lust in him as he looked down at my white teeth and slim form. "Claroi We go in the store. Denton is a friend of mine."

  A cowbell jangled as we came through the door. Rexo and Binky, two leatherboys from the Youngbloods gang, along with their cuddly Normajean. were sitting at Denton's old-style personal computer playing Wasteland. Rexo, the biggest one, scanned the newcomer coolly, his hand just brushing a catskinner hung in a leather scabbard over his hip. His look said it all. Don't make trouble. My client nodded his head, just a millimeter, but enough to acknowledge that he was not on his own turf. After a few seconds of appraisal, Rexo went back to his game.

  Denton's shop iooks as though it came straight out of a previous era, partly because he is ancient himself, at least 130 years old. At the moment, he was standing behind a wood and glass counter and giving us a smile. Denton is a big man, a little fat, but with muscles underneath the white hair on his arms, bald on top but with chinwhiskers like Santa Claus. He was smoking an old-fashioned tobacco cigarette. He makes them himself, and probably gets more income from peddling his own brand than from all the other herbs, talismans, and grimoires that fill his shop. Speaking of grimoires, Denton does have hundreds of real twentieth-century books if you ever feel like reading.

  I led the stranger past the first row of plastiglass display cabinets toward an old folding table and a couple of ancient chairs on the other side of the room from the computer. Out side, the sprinkle had turned into a downpour.

  "Gotta customer, Dent," I chirped. "Kin I use the table fer a bit?"

  "Sure thing. Flut." he answered with a wave. "When you’re done, perhaps the gentleman would like to examine some of my wares."

  We sat down and I extracted my tarot deck from my bag. I keep it wrapped in green silk, and handle it with the reverence due any tool of true magic.

  My deck is old. dating back to the 1970s. and has been passed down from mother to daughter in my family for three generations. I kept the cards face-down and spread them in a wide fan. all the while making with the snappy patter to loosen him up. The reverse side of the cards show a kind of moire pattern done in alternating diamonds of black, white, and turquoise, with the whole design resembling an eye—most appropriate for looking into the future. "My name is Madame Flutterbye, the finest truth-card reader in the Sprawl. I can tell your past, your future, and your blood-type by the way the cards fall. But, y
ou can call me Flut, if you’re not a nut." I threw him a nice smile along with the patter, letting him know that this wasn’t to be taken seriously, just enjoyed. "And since we’re friends, what’s your moniker? Of course, I could call you hey-you, but that’s rude and 'crude, and half the bozos in the city already answer to it."

  "Jaxxon." he blurted before I could launch into my next spiel.

  "Oooohh! Like Action Jackson?" squealed the boytoy across the room.

  That cracked us all up, and helped break the ice. When the chuckles subsided, he said, "That’s Jackson with two exes, and I’m no simporn star, but I could show you some action if you like."

  "Puh-leeze," cried Denton. "Not in my store."

  Back to business. "Think about who you are, and pull a card from the spread to signify that," I told Jaxxon.

  His brow furrowed, and I almost picked up a few of his surface thoughts—a fugitive, a fighter . . . His hand drifted over the cards to my right. When he pulled outa card and flipped it over, it was the Fool!

  I couldn’t stifle the expression of alarm on my face. When a Major Arcanum appears as a significator, the reading is always very serious and very immediate. So much for my intention of keeping things light. "We can stop, Mista Jaxxon. if you wish," I quavered. "No charge if we stop now."

  His turn to smile, quite a nice one, considering the gauntness of his features. A wolf’s smile, but not a hungry wolf. "My friends call me Turtle," he told me, "and let us go on. The Fool is cred by me. I’m on a dangerous journey, no drek, and it’s folly that got me here."

  I had to continue. "What spread do you favor? Pyramid, magic square, circle of life?"

  "Elven traditional will do."

  "Wiz! My fave! Not many munds know about it." While I chattered. I scooped up the cards and did a Vegas shuffle, not bending the old pasteboards much, but mixing them well. Then I set the deck down in front of him and said. "Split ’em. Turtle."

  "Before you start." he interrupted, "I want a twelve-card spread with the possibility fan at the apex. Deal the fourth and fifth cards face-down. No one is this room really needs to know my past. And it would be safer for all of us if you don’t."