Cyber Way

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Some Spanish. A little Japanese and Thai. A few words of Malay, plus my English and Navaho. Not as much Hopi as I should. You should hear the patter of some of the local street gangs. In the old days they used spray cans on the walls. Procter and Gamble’s graffiti-out took care of that.

  Now they mark their territories in other ways.

  “You can’t walk through certain parts of town without triggering a playback voc stuck to a ledge. It does not bother the standup citizens, because what comes out sounds like gibberish to them, but I have seen such messages drive other gang members to distraction.

  “You take all those languages I just listed for you and mix them all up with street slang as a catalyst and the result is something we have to use a Cribm molly to decipher. It does not make street work easy.”

  “How’s ya’ll’s gang problem here?”

  “No worse than that of a city of similar size, though when you have so much new money and excitement concentrated all in one place you are always going to have trouble. There are many wealthy local people and, as always, many poor ones as well. Some of the young poor join gangs, as they always have everywhere. They run phar-macuties, weapons, industrial stats and information, the same way gangs have supported themselves since the beginning of time. I am told it is a little more intense here than some other places. We have unique problems of cultural as well as fiscal disenfranchisement.

  “It helps that every major high-tech corporation in the world would like to do work here. It took them a while to discover that the people of the Four Comers region are the best high-tech workers on the planet. There are plants here that literally turn out zero-defect product. Combine those human resources with the unique tax advantages available to multinationals on the Rez and you have a combination irresistible to many companies. Our street people and our problems reflect this influx of outside influence and money.”

  So did the ethnic mix that swarmed the walkways, Moody noted. Between the Indians and Asians and Hispanics, Anglos were a distinct minority here, just as they were in parts of Tampa. It did not bother him. He’d been in the minority all his life. Fat people were an unrecognized minority all their own.

  He had to agree that this would be a tough town to police. You’d need specialists in a whole range of languages and cultures. Tampa’s ethnic mix of Anglo, Black, and Hispanic was much more straightforward, whereas Ganado was a seething southwestern bouillabaisse.

  “Your people aren’t restricted to assembly work, though?”

  “Oh, no. We own our share, individually and through the Council Enterprises. You can always tell if a building is Navaho-owned. Whether it is an apartment building, office complex, shopping tower or private home, the entrance will always face east.” He hesitated. “I am sorry. This is a lot for you to absorb all at once, and you just got off the plane.”

  “No problem.”

  ‘‘Well, you won’t meet many Hopis, so don’t worry about that. They have their own commercial center over at Seba Delkai. The Zunis stick mostly to New Mexico. But if you have trouble with any Navaho, just smile and say ‘doo ahashyaa da.’”

  “Do a hashee duh,” Moody essayed. Ooljee repeated the phrase slowly and carefully until he was sure Moody had it reasonably correct.

  “What am I saying?” Moody asked him.

  “It will tell people that you are a stranger here, not to be feared, and in need of assistance. I assure you they will be instantly sympathetic. Few Anglos make any attempt to learn Navaho. This will endear you to anyone you meet. It is a useful greeting phrase, though not readily translatable. Just like yatahey is Navaho for shalom.”

  “Say what?”

  “Never mind. Just stick with doo ahashyaa da and you will be okay no matter who you meet.”

  “Except for the guy we’re after.”

  “Yes. I do not think he will be instantly sympathetic to anyone. I would give a great deal to know if we are dealing with someone medically certifiable.”

  “I doubt it. A nut wouldn’t be able to hide his tracks this well.”

  “Not necessarily. A sane person is somewhat predictable. A crazy one is not. He could be more difficult to locate because of that.”

  “Unless some other sandpainting collector gets himself blown away.” Moody nodded out the window. “I’ve seen some paintings in a few storefronts, haven’t I?”

  Ooljee nodded. “Downtown is the center of the important tourist and shopping areas. It would be unusual if you had not seen any sandpaintings by now.”

  “Nobody uses the patterns for anything else? Advertising, maybe?”

  “Oh, no. That would be like making underwear out of the American flag. Eye-catching but unsettling. It is interesting that even those who insist they are completely modem and do not believe in the old ways would never do such a thing. It might make your business go bust or your building fall down. The one per cent uncertainty factor, remember? “Here is something else you might find of interest.” Ooljee switched off the laser pickup and resumed manual control of the truck, turning left and heading down an incline into a natural basin in the plateau. Ancient trees lined a stream through which water ran lazily. The land had been turned into a park, preserving the old trees and a cluster of aged buildings. Rocks had been sculpted into pleasing shapes or benches on which old people and young couples relaxed.

  “This is what remains of old Ganado. This is what all this country used to look like. The only silicon and gallium arsenide at this spot is in the ground. Not that anybody uses that stuff much anymore anyway. The park idealizes things a little but I have seen old two-D pictures of the area. The simulation is accurate.” He pointed to his left, at a hill fringed with gleaming towers.

  “They even saved the old Hubbell Trading Post. It occupies the lobby of the new one on Betatkin Boulevard.” He sat staring at the unhurried stream, the couples wandering along its modest banks. “Have you got a place to stay?” Moody shook his head. “My department told me to check in anywhere comfortable.”

  “I see. Then you will of course stay with me.”

  “Hey, no chance! First off you probably don’t have a bed that’ll fit me.”

  ‘‘I think we can manage something, if you don’t mind sleeping a little on the diagonal.”

  “And second of all, there’s no way I’m gonna put you and your wife out on my behalf.”

  “Are you a noisy person?”

  “I’m not likely to play shuntbuzz all night, if that’s what you mean. But that’s not the point. The point is…”

  “The point, my friend, is that it would be rude of you to refuse my hospitality. Perhaps I can convince you another way. How are you to pay for your accommodations here? Are you using a department card?”

  “Card, but…”

  “Restricted?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you are functioning on a per diem designed to cover your daily expenses while you are working with us. A per diem you receive as a supplement to your salary regardless of how you spend it. If you choose to stay in an expensive place, you have to cover the difference out of your own pocket. But if you choose to live cheaply, you have a balance you can spend at your own discretion. That is how we operate here.”

  “It’s the same in Tampa,” Moody admitted.

  “Which means that if you stay with us, the money which would otherwise go toward your room and board will be

  yours to pocket. Would that not help to compensate somewhat for being sent to a part of the country you dislike so intensely?”

  “Hey, I never said I didn’t like it here. Hell, I just got here.”

  “Your expression speaks eloquently even when your mouth is closed.”

  “What’s that?” Moody was angry at having been so transparent. “An old Navaho saying?”

  “No. Actually I got it from an Italian variety show that was on the RAI transponder last week. What do you say?” Moody didn’t want to start the week by insulting the guy he was going to be working with. By th
e same token, the thought of spending time in a cramped little apartment with kids underfoot—hadn’t Ooljee said something earlier about kids?—struck him as less than appealing. But he didn’t see how he could turn down the offer.

  “I’ll give it a try,” he said reluctantly, “but none of this ‘board’ business. I’ll pay for my own food or you’ll be broke inside a week.”

  “All right.” Ooljee grinned. “But I warn you. My wife loves to cook. She is an experimental gourmet and will be delighted to have a new vict—guest, to try out her latest recipes on. As to what you do with your money, that is up to you. The pleasures of full-time police work are few, and should be indulged in whenever possible.”

  They enjoyed the park for a while longer. Then Ooljee rolled up the windows and reprogrammed the onboard. The engine revved softly as the laser pickup exchanged information with the nav strip embedded in the pavement of the parking lot. The truck backed, turned itself around, and departed.

  Now that his plans were settled, Moody was able to devote his time to examining the exotica of urban Ganado. He was especially intrigued by the kids’ attire, an eclectic and inventive combination of all that Asia and America had to offer. It would have looked out of place back in Tampa. Here it all belonged.

  He made Ooljee slow down so he could study an exceptionally attractive young woman. Her black hair was crested by a pair of dyed-blond aerodynamic curls that swept up, around, and out from the sides of her head. Silver wire shimmered among the obsidian strands. The rest of her outfit consisted of red leather jacket and skirt dripping with buttons and carved fetishes, bits and fragments of salvaged componentry, reflective plastic boots, and a false tail built up out of twisted silver.

  Ooljee watched his colleague watching. “The hairdo is traditional Hopi. The decorations are not.”

  “How do they keep it up like that?” Moody marveled at the gravity-defying array.

  “It’s an old technique, though the girl is probably Navaho. There has been a lot of intermixing the last fifty years. Would have been more, but old enmities die hard.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that. I’m from the South.” As they turned westward they left the city center with its glitz and flash behind, entering an area crowded with individual homes, apartment buildings, and service structures. Cedar and stunted pine grew densely on uncleared land.

  “You do not have much of what I would call a Southern accent, my friend.”

  “Accents disappear fast in Metropolitan Florida.” Moody shifted in his seat. “It ain’t like living out in the country, on the family place. You find accents in Georgia and Sip, but Florida’s full of folks from all over everywhere. In that respect it’s a lot like L.A. I know Cubanos who sound like they’re from Chicago, not Havana.”

  “Traditions are stronger here and down in the Strip,” Ooljee replied. “You’ve probably heard about the Strip. Imagine a whole cluster of Ganados strung out along the Border. A good place for a man to lose himself. So we are concentrating our search here and there. Our suspect has a real dilemma. He could go to Portland, say, where he would stand out but where the search is not as intense, or he can stay here where he blends in naturally and try to hide. Me, I think he is around here somewhere.” High beams from an oncoming truck dimmed tardily, highlighting the sergeant’s face.

  “You are not married?”

  “Been there.” Moody stared out the window as they rushed past a gleaming all-night market. “Twice. It ain’t easy being married to a cop.”

  “My wife and I seem to have no trouble. I try not to bring my work home, and I think that helps. You look healthy. No serious on-the-job injuries?”

  “I’ve been shot at a few times. Lucky so far. I do a lot of research for the rest of the department. After a while, you find out what you’re good at and stick to that. Neither my mental, physical or work profile suits me for chasing outgrabed crazyboys down dark alleys.”

  “I know you must be good at what you do or your department would not have chosen you to come here. You are probably an expert at observation and at putting disparate elements together. Like sandpainting.”

  “Nothing personal,” said Moody sharply, “and while it’s central to the case, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep bringing that up.”

  Ooljee glanced at him in surprise. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a superstitious guy and I’m getting tired of it. I can’t tell when you’re putting me on and when y’all are being serious, and it’s making me uncomfortable, okay? I’m a rational empiricist, or whatever the hell it is they’re calling folks who believe in common sense these days. So gimme a break, okay?”

  “Okay,” Ooljee replied as he added very softly, “but it is central to the understanding of our suspect as well as everything else about this business.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Ooljee lived far out on the west side of the city, in a hexacluster of thirty-story multisided towers. Parks and service facilities separated the cluster from its nearest neighbor half a mile to the south. The parks were full of trees and sculpted sandstone, all of it alien to Moody. Trees and bushes wore their desiccated greenery defiantly. Each tower entrance, he noted, faced east.

  A telltale on the truck’s dash beeped as the building recognized vehicle and driver. A heavy garage door swung upward, granting them access to the subterranean garage.

  “Don’t you think,” Moody said as the sergeant drove down the ramp and the door closed behind them, “you ought to call your wife and let her know you’re bringing company home?”

  “She knew someone was coming. She would be surprised only if you were not staying with us.”

  The elevator lifted them nine-tenths of the way up the tower, where they exited into a circular hall. Ooljee crossed to a door that was already opening. A short, stocky woman with a smile like an upside-down rainbow stepped aside to let them enter.

  Her name was Lisa. The names of the four-armed, fourlegged ball of fury occupying the center of the living room, when separated into its component halves, were Blue and Sun. The boys remained motionless only long enough to embrace their father before fleeing to the sanctum of their bedroom.

  The floor was covered with a fabric that felt like carpet but resembled packed earth, a tour-de-force of manufacturing akin to dyeing a rabbit coat to look like mink. There were couches and chairs of rough-cut real wood, blankets and prints on the walls, pots and shelves full of holomage picture books. The kitchen was contrasting technoshock: all gleaming black plastic and brass.

  When Ooljee told him he would have the boys’ room, Moody was immediately concerned.

  “Where are they supposed to sleep?” He indicated the long couch in the living room. “Hide-a-bed?”

  “No.” Ooljee turned toward the curved transparent doors that fronted the back of the living room. “Out on the porch. It will be a treat for them.”

  Moody walked over to the doors. The small size of the apartment was somewhat compensated for by the spacious terrace. It was shielded from the elements by the terrace immediately above it, the semicircular polycrete porches resembling giant poker chips stuck in the side of the building. Ooljee’s provided a breathtaking vantage point from which to view the distant line of red which marked the escarpment of the Salahkai Mesa and the even more distant mountains beyond. Spectacular scenery, but not impressive enough to make Moody forget the pale blue of the Gulf.

  One of the boys was tugging at his trousers. He was all black eyes, straight black hair, and youthful energy. Not knowing what else to say and figuring it was a safe place to try out what he’d learned, Moody smiled down at the kid and said, “Doo ahashyaa da.”

  The boy covered his mouth and giggled, gazing wide-eyed at the massive visitor. His older brother broke out laughing. Chattering among themselves, they retreated to their bedroom.

  Moody was pleased. He’d now mastered two Navaho phrases: yatahey and the one he’d just employed.

  Ooljee was talking to his wife. Left to hi
s own devices, Moody walked out onto the porch. Since he was standing on the west side of the westernmost tower in the condo complex, none of the other structures was visible. There was nothing to interrupt the view. Off to the south stood a second complex of glittering spires; electric necklaces stuck in the earth.

  It was getting late. Lights were coming on in other apartments. Perhaps their murderer was sitting in one, quietly contemplating the results of his work. He wandered back into the living room, listening to the domestic chatter emanating from the kitchen, a mellifluous melange of English and Navaho. Some of the furniture looked old, but modem manufacturing could duplicate anything, including age. The blankets that were hung on the walls intrigued him. The patterns were not remarkably intricate nor were the colors especially bright, but there was a heft, a solidity to the designs, he had never encountered elsewhere. Gazing at them was like unexpectedly encountering an old friend.

  The apartment was not large and he eventually found himself back out on the balcony, staring at the setting sun. If he squinted hard he could pretend he was looking at the sea. A voice startled him. He hadn’t heard Ooljee approach.

  “You should be here in the summer for the sunsets, after a monsoon thunderstorm. You would not believe how many shades of gold one sky can contain.”

  Moody leaned on the thin, inflexible banister that ringed the porch. “I didn’t know Indians still practiced stealth.”

  “I don’t know about that, but good cops do.” He nodded at the sunset. “What do you think?”

  “It’s different from where I come from.”

  “And not really to your taste. I understand. The land here takes time to appreciate. All the bright colors are in the sky.”

  “I guess it’s all what you grow up with.”

  “Mostly I think it is the emptiness that gets to people, especially people from back East.”

  “Yeah. The only empty land left in Florida is in parks.”