Never Deal with a Dragon

by Robert N. Charrette

  The tribe had no name as far as Dodger knew, its members a mixture of heritages, from Salish to Blackfoot to Navajo. Most were young runaways from tribal lands, lured by the big city and fast life of the whites and yellows. Some were plex-born and bred, their ancestors having long since abandoned the bucolic dreams of the tribals who ran the Council Lands. Only a few were old enough to remember the concentration camps of the century’s early decades; and these were the source for the few ancient customs the tribe followed.

  Ghost’s people, like most tribals in North America, had lost much of their heritage. Under the guise of combatting a rebellious and dangerous terrorist element, the former U.S. government had tried to exterminate the reds. It had condemned them to “re-education centers” intended to stamp out Indian culture and racial identity. The terror only ended when the leaders of tribal unification raised the rising tide of magic to smash the tyrant’s grip. The power of the Great Ghost Dance had won back liberty and land, as well as creating a new order in North America.

  But the tribal peoples had suffered more than physically. Much knowledge once painstakingly gathered by anthropologists and preserved by tribal historians perished in the purges. They were forced to rebuild their heritage from the memories and tales of the old folks. The urban tribes were a legacy of the loss.

  The members of the city tribes were bound by their skin color and outlook more than their traditional tribal affiliations. They dressed in styles that mixed traditional garb, the white man’s clothing, mistaken reconstruction, and pure whimsy. They might be the new face of the red man, as Ghost believed, or they might be a dead end, outcasts from the autonomous tribes of the Council lands. Whatever they were, this neighborhood was their home; they had made it relatively safe for their own members and any who acknowledged their dominance.

  Those three at the mouth of the alley were the muscle who ran the shadows and the spotters and scouts who blended into the bricks until their eyes seemed everywhere. They were good at what they did. They had to be. Types like them were either good or dead.

  As though sensing Dodger’s gaze, the leader of the three turned slowly and glared up at the Elf. Dodger didn’t remember the kid’s name, but the hate on his face revealed how hard the street had been before the urban tribe took him in.

  Wanting the respect people gave to Ghost, known throughout the plex and beyond as a near-matchless warrior, this street warrior tried to emulate him by adopting the older Indian’s technocreed and cybering up. Already he wore the red-painted warrior bars on his arm as a badge of his lethal prowess in the turf wars that were the tribe’s battlefields. But the perfect vision of those chrome eyes was not enough to see that toughness and street smarts were not enough to make a leader. As long as he held to his hate, he would be a punk, blind to the wisdom that made Ghost Who Walks Inside the chief of his people.

  A hand on Dodger’s shoulder broke his reverie. Turning, he saw Ghost standing before him, sweaty and smelling of sex. The ragged denim cut-offs, beaded vest, and sheen of perspiration set off the muscularity of his trim build. His curled fingers hid the faint etching of induction pads on his palms, but the absence of his habitual headband exposed the four studs along Ghost’s left temple. The apparent naturalness was a subtlety of style and strategy that the punk, with his chrome eyes and blatant bodyshop muscle implants, had missed.

  Ghost’s dark eyes sparkled, and he grinned, showing uneven teeth. “Practicing your chivalry, Elf?”

  “Discretion is ever advised in affairs concerning the fairer sex, O Samurai of the Streets.”

  “Give her a minute.”

  “Certes, Sir Razorguy.” It was not as though Dodger had never seen Sally naked before, but Ghost might not be aware of that fact. He waved a hand in the general direction of the sentries. “Your warriors passed me through without a word that you and Sally were occupied.”

  “Not their biz.”

  No, but they would have known. “Perhaps they thought to gain amusement at my expense, expecting you to react violently to an intrusion.”

  Ghost glanced down at his soldiers. “Hunh. Jason just might. He doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks. Let’s go inside.”

  Ghost led the way through the window, moving slowly, no doubt to block Dodger’s view until the Indian was certain Sally was decent. The Elf smiled at the Indian’s back and followed.

  Sally Tsung sat cross-legged on the foam pad that served as a bed. The University of Seattle T-shirt clung to her body, practically transparent in its contact with her damp skin. The shirt might have been more than long enough to cover a more modest lady, but Sally’s position had hiked it up over her hips to reveal dark blue panties. A lurid Dragon tattoo crawled down the length of her right arm to rest its chin on the back of the hand brushing back her blonde hair. She was disheveled and reeked as much as Ghost, but she was beautiful.

  “Dodger,” she said, her face lighting with a welcoming smile. “Ghost said it was you. Haven’t seen you in...how long has it been?”

  “Not long enough,” Ghost offered.

  Sally shot him a look of mock anger. “Too long. Been too busy to sprawl with old friends?”

  “’Tis truth, Fair One, that I have been occupied.”

  “And now you’re loose.” She rolled to her feet. “That’s wiz! We heard a rumor that Concrete Dreams will show up to play at Club Penumbra tonight. It isn’t true, of course, but the crowd ought to be great. Figures that you’d show in time for a big street party.”

  Dodger was tempted, but he had other things on his mind. “‘Tis certain to be a full flash, Lady. A pity that I shall be elsewhere.”

  “Biz?” Sally asked with mild curiosity.

  “Does the name Samuel Verner call any memories to mind?”

  “Sure. That was the kid who tipped us to the scam when Seretech tried setting us up for murder in that Renraku run last year.” Sally’s laugh ended in a sly smile. “No, can’t recall a thing.”

  “I have heard from him recently,” Dodger said.

  “He survived going back to Raku?” Ghost asked. “He was one brave paleface to hold to his loyalty.”

  “Foolish, more like. If they didn’t dump him, they must of froze him solid. Junior sarariman without end, or hope. Amen.” Sally snatched a soy bar from the stool that served as a table. Around the mouthful she bit off, she added her evaluation, “What a dumb kid.”

  Dodger looked at Ghost to see how he took the remark. Ghost, who was younger than Sally, kept his expression rigidly neutral. Dodger knew this meant disagreement, but the Indian would not voice it. Some kind of Indian macho thing. Feeling uncharacteristically sorry for the samurai, Dodger said. “I believe that he is of an age with yourself, Lady Tsung.”

  “Let’s not get personal, Dodger,” she snapped.

  The Elf gave her his most disarming grin. “No offense intended, Fair One. I only meant to imply that first impressions can be deceiving.”

  “Are you saying there’s something we should know about him? Something about that Seretech run?”

  “Nay. That matter is long-buried. As to what you might want to know of him, I would not presume to say. You have ever been the best judge of what you needed, or wanted, to know of anyone.”

  “Dodger.” Sally’s voice held a warning note, but still remained light. Her tone said he had piqued her interest.

  “The word I bring is that he wishes to meet with those he ran with a year ago.”

  “Then it is biz!” Sally sat up, eyes widening as a new eagerness entered her face. “Has he changed his name to Johnson?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Don’t be coy, Dodger.”

  “Far better, Fair One, that he explain it all to you himself.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Crenshaw made the formal courtesy bows at the door and again as she neared his seat, but Sato’s frown did not bode well. Though the chair opposite was empty, his expression told her to not take it. She placed a chip on the low table and remained
standing. Sato pointed at the case and raised an eyebrow.

  “The overnight report, Sato-sama,” she said.

  Sato sat quietly for several seconds, staring at the case, then turned his gaze to the Seattle skyline visible through the windows. His voice was cold. “Will I find it any more encouraging than the others inflicted on me for the last week?”

  Not likely, she thought. He had lived up to his reputation as a hatchetman, bringing many departments of Renraku America to heel. So far he had left one untouched, though Crenshaw suspected it was the prime reason for his visit. “All construction and implementation departments record quotas met according to your revised schedule.”

  “I expected no less. There is nothing new from the Special Directorate, then?” He took her silence as confirmation. “That project is the crucial matter. The advancement and well-being of Renraku depends on its success.”

  Advancement and well-being for you, Crenshaw corrected inwardly. She’d used such indirection often enough herself. Words were useful; one could aim them obliquely to avoid embarrassment, or directly to distract attention. She chose her own next words carefully. “President Huang reports that the latest test results are encouraging, Kansayaku.”

  Sato swung his head around to glare at her, the sparkling gold irises of his eyes shrunken to mere rings around his dilated pupils. For a moment, she thought he was angry, but his words allayed her fear. “Test results have been encouraging for over a year. Such lack of progress is no longer acceptable. Huang and his team must show results.”

  Relieved, she saw an opportunity beginning to form. “I am sure that something will break soon, Kansayaku.”

  “Oh, yes. Something will.” Sato’s sudden, shark-toothed grin told her that he would wait no longer.

  “Perhaps there is something that I can do for the Kansayaku?”

  “Perhaps, indeed.” He composed his features into a calmer, business-like expression. “I have lost patience with the plodding Huang and that shrill harpy. The Special Directorate is not so special that it can continue to drain resources. They must achieve the goals set forth in their mandate or admit failure. It is time they found some incentive.”

  “I understand, Kansayaku.”

  “I knew you would, Crenshaw-san. We have already invested too much in chasing their dreams. Renraku lives and dies in the world of reality and a dream that cannot become real is worth no more than an American dollar.”

  He turned his gaze again to the skyline. Crenshaw bowed and headed for the door. As she was crossing the threshold, he spoke again.

  “I expect results soon.”

  “Hai, Kansayaku.” She bowed to the back of his head as the door slid shut. Ignoring the covert stares of Sato’s bodyguards and staff, she strode across the antechamber without a word. Let them wonder what he might have empowered her to do.

  In reality, Sato had given her license to continue. She was already trying to find a lever with one or more members of the AI team. At the time she’d set Addison to the task, Crenshaw wasn’t sure how she might use such leverage. Her only idea had been to learn something about some member of the team that she could use as blackmail for whatever they were hiding. Now she saw a better opportunity. The more she could control the flow of data on the team’s progress, the better she could make herself look to Sato. With the proper timing, she could make it look as though she had motivated any successes while disassociating herself from any failures. As well as she had performed for Sato until now, this was the task that would count. If she pulled it off, she would ingratiate herself with a Renraku man powerful enough to get her what she really wanted.

  Ever since she’d matched the date of tampering in the Level 6 records with Samuel Verner’s departure from the arcology, she’d known that he was part of some industrial espionage aimed at the AI project. Any day now, the team she had set on his trail would bring her the damning evidence she needed. With Sato’s backing, she could wrap her revenge nicely into the package.

  Once she’d nailed Verner and his shadow friends, she could concentrate on what she’d sought since the Manila affair. The Kansayaku’s gratitude and influence would get it for her. He had the power to get her reinstated to the home office and the assurance of a quiet tenure until retirement.

  Of course, with a man like Sato, nothing was certain. He would always have more than one angle on a situation and other people working toward his goals. But she had a head start. She’d be the one to succeed once she got her leverage.

  Trying to get something on Cliber continued to be an exercise in frustration. Sato’s growing impatience meant Crenshaw must concentrate on the more promising lines of investigation, getting Addison to hustle in his checks into Huang’s and Hutten’s paramours. He hadn’t gotten much yet, but he might soon.

  Huang was a constant fellow and regular in his habits, but his woman was false. At least her identity was. Addison was still trying to uncover the real identity. Crenshaw was sure the woman would turn out to be an agent of some outside source seeking to co-opt the president. And if not that, the tart’s reasons for concealing her identity might still be enough to persuade her to become Crenshaw’s agent. Using a mistress to manipulate a man was basic tradecraft.

  Hutten’s situation had looked less promising at first. He didn’t have a steady mistress, but varied his timing and his lovers at random. That a man like that would have an active interest in the advantages of Level 6 had seemed out of character for him, thereby raising her suspicions. With the aid of Markowitz, Addison had been able to look deep enough to justify her suspicions. Neo-playboy Konrad Hutten’s ladies all had affiliations with a company called Congenial Companions. Addison was still tracing the owners through a maze of blinds and false fronts.

  The prospects for leverage were looking even better now that she had authorization for her hunt. Any number of things would be easier, including speed of search. This opportunity was her best chance in years, and she wasn’t going to blow it. Not even Verner’s obscure designs on the project would stop her.

  Ghost, Dodger, and Sally came in together. Dodger smiled and actually embraced Sam, then thrust him back to inspect him carefully. He tweaked at the beard that had filled out since San Francisco.

  “‘Tis most fitting, Twist. You bid fair to be a knight out of a romance.”

  Ghost stepped up during the Elf’s performance, a half-smile on his face. Sam was surprised to see the Indian’s expression so friendly. “Welcome back to the shadows, paleface,” he said, gripping Sam’s right forearm. Though the Indian was smaller, Sam would never match his strength without cybernetic enhancement. He’d never want to be caught on the hostile end of the samurai’s grip.

  Sally hung back and watched, clearly evaluating Sam’s new appearance. He wondered what she made of it. The last time they’d met, he had been a mere suit in her eyes, corporate born and bred. Now he wore an armor vest and serviceable street clothes of his own. His beard, he knew, made him look older.

  What struck him about her was that she was unchanged, yet looked vastly different. He realized now that her magic must have so intimidated him that he’d barely noted her beauty before. How could you pay attention to full breasts and inviting curves when you knew a woman could turn a ravening Barghest into a smoking slab of meat with the touch of her hand? She’d awed and frightened him by doing just that.

  Now that magic was no longer alien to Sam, he could see Sally more as a woman. Hanae had been pretty, but she hadn’t the sensuality that sang from the street mage when she moved.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said lamely.

  “Dodger got me curious. What’s the brief?”

  Sam gave her a weak, nervous smile. “I had hoped to explain it only once. Isn’t the Ork coming?”

  “Kham the Muscle-Brained was informed of the meet, Sir Twist. To ensure his arrival, I deemed it wise to let him believe we were to meet with a corporate sponsor.”

  “He’ll get here when he gets here,” Sally pronounced, makin
g herself comfortable in the only upholstered chair in the squat. “Hope it’s worth my time.”

  Sam was at a loss. He didn’t know how to make small talk with these people and he didn’t want to get started on his story. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get through telling it twice. The runners dispersed themselves around the room, apparently more comfortable with the silent waiting than he was.

  Kham the Ork showed up a few minutes later. He greeted his fellow runners boisterously before noticing Sam, when the Ork’s mood suddenly shifted and grew cool. Kham grunted at Sam’s extended hand and took up a chair in the corner of the room. He glowered at Sam, then threw Sally a look that Sam interpreted as confusion mixed with suspicion. Still looking at Sally, the Ork asked, “So what’s de story?”

  Haltingly at first, Sam told the tale of his growing disenchantment with Renraku, his departure from the arcology, and all that had happened since. The telling took longer than he’d expected, with some new duplicity to outline or postulate at every twist and turn. He finished with his discovery that Drake had managed to place an impostor into the arcology under cover of Sam’s and Hanae’s extraction. Those were the facts. He also told them his feelings, hoping it would help persuade them his cause was right. As for his brushes with magic and death, those he spoke of more from the need to talk than because of their relevance.

  Some things he did not tell. One was the nature of that impostor. He hardly believed in the doppelganger himself, and he had seen the evidence. How could he tell them that a magical being had been created in a scientific laboratory and been sent to infiltrate Renraku, taking the place of a loyal employee? Somehow that seemed even more insane than his nightmare conversation with Dog. If he had told them about the doppelganger, they might have dismissed him as crazy from his ordeal in the badlands. He couldn’t afford their ridicule or scorn; he wanted and needed their help.

  When Sam finally finished his tale, the Ork was the first to speak. “Let me get dis straight. You want us to help you burn dis Drake guy just because he’s running against Renraku and a few pieces of meat got in de way and got cooked?” Kham grimaced, then flashed a look at the faces of his fellow runners. “Suitboy, you’re brain-fried.”