It had been too easy, but Neko wasn’t worried. Cog might get mad if he found out, but he would take no action. Neko was too good a source. A few bargains and a freebie or two would placate the fixer. “Oil in the works." as Cog himself liked to say. Biz was biz, one thing that Cog understood best. He wouldn’t like it, but he would understand.
Neko negligently flipped the chip case as he watched the crowds. So many good little salarymen from all over the world, rushing about their oh-so-ordered lives and rubbing shoulders with the street people and the proles. He had heard that the Enclave had not always been this way. Oh, rich and poor sharing sweat, for sure. That was eternal in the cramped streets. But the oldsters said the population had once been almost exclusively Chinese, with only the occasional foreigner.
It was hard to imagine now. The enclave had become truly international, with its balance of round Chinese faces, sleek Japanese visages like Neko’s own, the angular gauntness of the Caucasians, and the occasional darkness of Africans and other Blacks become so natural a part of the city’s character. How could it ever have belonged to the Chinese?
Whatever its history, Neko savored the city now. It was said that if half the Enclave’s population were to come to street level all at once, they would suffocate in the closeness. It was an exaggeration, of course, but a good image for the teeming multitudes, shoulder to shoulder and always moving. All those ears, and none remained still long enough to hear. So many eyes, fixed on sights other than him. He loved it.
The street telecom by which he stood chirped. He slid away from the wall and leaned into the privacy shield. He had already installed an override on the telecom vid pickup so he couldn’t be seen unless he wished to be. With a flick of a finger, he activated the circuit. The screen remained black, but he said “Moshi, moshi." anyway.
“State your business." responded a voice fuzzed with electronic distortion. A cautious one, this elf.
“You got the spec on the first call. Along with the rules. You want transfer, or do I find another market?” That was a bluff. Neko didn’t know anybody who would want the stuff. He could most certainly find someone, but the time it took would devalue the information. As always, realizing maximum profit required a fast deal. He thought he’d hosed it, but at last the screen flickered and the head and shoulders of an elf appeared in three-quarter view. The hair was shorter and styled differently from the virtual image Neko had seen, but the turn of the pointed ears, the long, straight line of the nose, and the slim line of the jaw were familiar. A datacord arced from the elf’s far temple toward a spot beneath the image area. Overly cautious, this elf, but in another way bold, if he thought to break the unwritten rules of the not-place by offering a modified virtual image when he visited. Neko decided to test the sensitivity of that issue with a probe for a reaction.
“You look a bit different from your virtual image. New dye job?” he asked.
“Slave to fashion, you know." the elf said with forced nonchalance. He remained icily calm, though. “Verily, I’m forwarding payment.”
“Wiz. Call back in ten." Neko told him, cutting the circuit without waiting for a response or protest. Keeping them off guard was a way to stay in control. Neko didn’t like things he couldn’t control.
Ten minutes later, after Neko had confirmed the funds transfer, the elf was back on the line.
“Trusting, chummer." Neko told him.
The elf smiled slyly. “Don’t think a decker like myself could not recover those funds if your offering proved false. Verily, I’m better than that.”
If the elf was a member of the club that played in the not-place, it was probably so. Neko decided to transfer the funds to hardcopy as soon as he broke connection. Better yet, he’d place the order from the next phone while transferring the now paid-for goods. “Ready to receive?”
“Affirmative.”
“Look, chummer. I’ll slot the chip and send the data hard-shelled. Code three-seven. How about you stay on the line and let me know it got through.”
“Very well.”
“Wiz.” That’ll give me time to stash the loot. Neko slotted the chip and started the transfer as promised. He was pocketing half a dozen certified credsticks that had come tumbling from the delivery slot—more like rolls of candy than the bottled wealth they were—when the elf came back on the first telecom line.
“ ’Tis received complete, and the code checks.
Contact me again in twenty-four hours. I may have further work for you.”
Neko let a little bit of his pleasure show, but concealed all of his surprise. “Frigid. Nuyen for news is a way of life. But do me a favor, chummer. Don’t change your look between now and then. You elves all look alike to us norms. I almost didn’t recognize you without the shag.”
“Don’t worry about my looks. The credit’s good. What more do you need?”
“To do biz? Just the transfer, chummer. Yours to mine. Keep it healthy and we’re in biz.”
The circuit went dead. Neko shrugged and smiled at the blank screen. You didn’t have to like them to do biz.
* * *
Urdli stood in the doorway and looked across to the stretched-out form of the decker. Standing around the corner from where he lay were several medical machines gathered like mourners for a funeral. His thinness would have been suitable for an Australian, but this was a Caucasian elf, and so undernourished. But that was less of an abuse than the things implanted in the decker’s body. Even the mundane should find such perversion disgusting. A chrome-headed viper kissed the port in the decker’s head, while at the other end of the coiled length its tail disappeared into an artifact Estios had identified as a Fuchi 7 cyberdeck.
Teresa O’Connor busied herself changing the intravenous drip. It seemed a waste of effort and materials. More than twelve hours had passed since the decker had touched the cyberdeck keyboard. From what Urdli had heard about such things, it must mean that the decker’s brain was no longer in control, if anything remained of its higher functions. The subjective journey through cyberspace still required the physical manipulation of computer interface devices.
“Unhook the machine." he ordered.
O’Connor looked at him with wide eyes. “No." she said with uncommon vehemence.
“I will wait no longer. There are questions he must answer, assuming anything is left in there.”
“Dodger’s not brain-dead.” Teresa’s voice betrayed her concern. Perhaps trying to convince herself, she pointed at the monitor, whose obscure graphs and numbers meant nothing to Urdli. “There’s activity at all levels. He’s still alive and aware. He’s just . . . lost.”
“In the Matrix?”
“I think so.”
“Not possible. The Matrix is no true reality. Either he is in command of his brain, or not. If so, once the connection is severed, his awareness will be forced to return to the real world. If not, the matter will be resolved.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. His condition is not normal. His theta rhythms are grossly out of synch with normal decking activity. If we sever the link, he might go catatonic.”
“I will take the risk.”
“Damn it! It’s not your risk to take!”
“Makkanagee morkhan, I will do it myself.” As Urdli took the first step into the room, O’Connor came from behind the couch to place herself between him and the decker. By the defensive stance she took, he saw how apt was the name he had called her, for her Shatatain stance showed her well below his own competence in the art of carromeleg. “Laverty does not oppose me. By standing in my way, you break your bond as milessaratish, staining his honor while gaining none for yourself. You will fall.”
“I’m not milessaratish, so leave the professor out of it. This is between you and me. I won’t let you touch Dodger.”
Her defiance was annoying. “By denying the bond to Laverty, you remove restraint from me. Out of consideration for him, I might have only incapacitated you, but now you have offended me with your opposition. You cannot
stop me. You can buy only the slightest delay with your life.”
He took his stance, and he saw in her eyes the realization that she was indeed facing a superior. Surprisingly, her rigidity slackened into a more natural defensive posture. That would make her a more difficult conquest, but though delayed, the outcome would be the same. He slid forward a pace and studied her non-reaction. More difficult, indeed. The appreciation of imminent death had brought her to zathien. Her unresolved stillness of spirit offered danger and unpredictable responses. He centered himself, seeking his own grasp of zathien from which to answer her. In the face of her resolution, the completeness eluded him. He slid forward another pace, determined to overmatch her transcendental state with his skill.
The clash never began.
“What’s going on?”
Urdli slid back from engagement range before turning to face the newly arrived Estios. O’Connor relaxed, too, but her breathing was rapid, speeded by the adrenaline coursing in her system. The interruption had disrupted her zathien. She would be no serious hindrance to Urdli now. But first he would learn what had brought Estios from his huddled conferences with Laverty’s scholars and technicians.
“What news, Estios?”
Deliberately ignoring the confrontation he had interrupted, Estios spoke in a tone more suitable to a briefing room. “The new data has been correlated with the last batch the alley runner received from the source in Hong Kong. Probabilities that the operations are under way are more than fifty percent on several of the possibilities. If, as you suggest, the fixer known as Grandmother is an agent of Rachnei, she is a most active agent.”
“Characteristic." Urdli said impatiently.
“I’ll take your word for it. One of her areas of activity is of particular interest, as it suggests a very ugly possibility.”
“You try my patience, Estios.”
Estios gave him a tight smile that held no humor. “Try this. What do Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Tripoli, and Baghdad have in common?”
“You remain obscure.”
“These are all cities where atomic or nuclear weapons have been used.”
“But that’s open history." O’Connor interjected. “They are also all topics of Grandmother’s researches, with her interest confined to dates following the unfortunate nuclear events.” Estios turned to her. “And the events are not open history to something that slept through the explosions.”
Urdli nodded in understanding. “You suggest that Rachnei seeks to understand the potential of such weaponry. A reasonable speculation, for nuclear war devices were not developed much before the middle of the last century. They would, indeed, be unknown to a sleeper. The precaution of investigating potential threats is in keeping with Rachnei’s reputed method of operation. Knowing what we know, simple research offers no threat.”
“I agree. If historical research based in, shall we say, scientific curiosity were all there was to it, there would be no danger. However, we have discovered additional files, nested within a datastore, containing lists of all the legitimately held nuclear weapons remaining after the build-down.”
Urdli set aside Estios’ concern with a negligent wave of his hand. “Rachnei would certainly seek knowledge of currently available weapons. My understanding is that the safeguards installed to protect those devices after the Awakening should be adequate to prevent acquisition by any unauthorized party.”
Estios’ blue eyes glittered like ice at Urdli’s dismissive gesture, but he held his temper. Anger barely colored his tone. “Where the weapons are held legitimately I would agree, but the datastore held more files nested even deeper. The encryption protecting that datafile is much better. It’s locked very tightly.”
“And you fear that some terrible secret is locked within that file?”
“I do." Estios stated firmly. “The technicians tried to open the file but were unable to recover much. When the code was broken, we released some kind of virus that started to devour the data. The team only got bits and pieces. We've gotten out enough to know that a handful of sites are on Grandmother's list. Each one is located near a former storage site for nuclear weapons or delivery systems.”
“Suggesting that Rachnei is seeking a stockpile of nuclear weapons?”
“I believe so.”
Urdli considered the danger of such an occurrence and found it unthinkably great. He knew the ways of magic too well and how little a part coincidence played. The uncovering of Rachnei’s shard could only align with the uncovering of this nuclear threat. If one was not the father of the other, they would work in concert. “And where does Verner fit into this?” Estios shrugged his shoulders in helplessness. “We haven’t figured that angle, but some connection is likely. We’ve learned he’s headed for Denver.”
“Rocky Flats." O’Connor whispered.
“Or NORAD command at Cheyenne Mountain, or any of a dozen possible places where the old U.S.A. military played their games." Estios said. “For a Caucasian like him, Denver would be the best location to work any of those sites.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Estios." O’Connor said. “Verner’s not working for Grandmother or Rachnei. You know him. He’s not that kind.”
Estios ignored her. “We’ve also learned that Grandmother has sent two Asian agents to Denver.”
“Coincidence." O’Connor objected.
Urdli smiled sourly. He knew better. “Can you be sure, O’Connor? Rachnei works subtly, sending out strands, then manipulating them carefully until the target is ensnared in a web from which there is no escape. Verner may be trapped already. Perhaps he started out innocently enough, but over time fell under the influence Rachnei has projected through the stone. Verner may not even be aware that he is carrying the stone to Rachnei’s agents. It is more imperative than ever that we prevent the stone from falling into Rachnei’s grasp. I had thought that Verner yielding his stolen treasure to Rachnei would represent only the loss of a weapon, but I begin to see that we stand to lose far more “Verner must be stopped.”
22
Sam was exhausted, but he was getting used to that. For days he had been running on short sleep. Chasing leads and meeting with locals, both shadowfolk and legitimate citizens, kept him up all hours of the day and night When he could sleep he got little rest, always troubled by dreams, vague fantasies of pursuit where he shifted roles from the hunter to the hunted. In those nocturnal excursions he was running, always running. Not the pleasing freedom of the chase, however, but the desperate, panting flight of knowing someone or something powerful is just behind one’s tail. So far, he had not glimpsed his nightmarish pursuer.
The emotions from the dreams had leaked over into his waking life, leaving him nervous and warily watching over his shoulder. At these moments he thought he might expose whoever was following him, and had begun trying sudden spins and fast doubling-back around corners. So far he had yet to observe any clearly malevolent trackers, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.
He surveyed the street he intended to cross. There was no rush; the runner he was to meet was not scheduled to arrive for another half-hour. Plenty of time to check out the site. Here in this maze of tenements, the crowd was a mix of working types, homebodies, and the SINless. Ordinary people. Only a few looked out of place. Sam spotted a pair of Indian salarymen—did they call them that here?—passing through on business, and then a block down, he saw a pack of teenage corporates hanging out in their pseudo-tough leathers, studs, and chrome. No doubt they were sprawling for the thrill of it. They were faint shadows of the predators who would appear once the kids had gone home. It was too early in the evening for the night life to come crawling out, though the signs of their presence were clear in the burn marks and bullet holes that scarred the buildings.
The predators might not be out, but the scavengers were getting an early start. An old man was moving along the opposite sidewalk, poking through the trash and debris that passing traffic had swept against the building walls. The man’s ben
t frame was covered in a battered U.S. army field jacket whose usual markings had been replaced with crude patches bearing colorful symbols. Once the scrounger looked Sam’s way, letting Sam see the hawk nose and pointed chin that dominated the man’s craggy, lined face beneath the battered, broad-brimmed reservation hat. Sam was startled to see that the junk-picker was an Indian, but then he told himself that even Indian society must have its failures.
Then he realized that his reaction was not for the fact that the old man was an Indian, but because he looked familiar. Sam crossed the street and walked past him, trying to get another surreptitious look at the old face, but the scavenger was too busy bending over a particularly noisome pile of trash.
Sam reviewed his glimpse of the man’s features. Where had he seen that face before? He watched the bum sidle toward him, then on down the street. As the old man passed, he gave no sign of attention or intent. It struck Sam that the scavenger’s features resembled those of his temporary landlord, which was possible. The coat gave the shambling junk-picker an almost unrecognizable shape, and the shuffling walk would disguise a person’s normal gait. His old coot of a landlord had a shifty gaze, and seemed to be paying an unreasonable amount of attention to Sam’s comings and goings. A cheap disguise might suit such an amateur spy.
But if a spy, for whom? His nightmares?
Find Your Own Truth Page 14