Shadowrun 01 - Never Deal With A Dragon (40 page)

Now waiting here in the quiet little room, he was having second thoughts. Lofwyr had done him no harm. Why was Sam so reluctant to trust the Dragon? Had his experiences with Tessien soured him against all of their breed? Or was he just reacting to the beast's alien nature? Sam didn't like to think he could surrender so easily to such prejudice.

He had been raised to believe that all sentient creatures had souls and that the soul was what separated them from animals. But in his interview with Lofwyr, Sam had sensed a cold ruthlessness, as though humanity were his plaything. Did Dragons believe that only their kind had souls? Or did they even believe in souls at all?

His father had taught him to judge each person individually, but the elder Verner had never met a Dragon. The United Nations recognized at least three kinds of dracoforms as intelligent beings and thereby entitled to full rights under international law, but that didn't mean Dragons thought and acted like normal Humans. Who could ever know or understand them?

A slight hiss from the hidden speaker cut off his ruminations.

"My apologies for the delay, Twist."

Sam mentally scrambled back into his street-wise attitude. "So I am who I say?"

"Let us say that I do not dispute your claim at this time and that we may do business. Your offerings seem legitimate, though Mr. Vinson is a somewhat transparent construct."

Whether or not Lofwyr were trustworthy, Sam doubted he would hand out inferior tools. "You know as well as I do that the I.D. is solid, Cog. But nothing lasts forever, right? You might want to move it along."

"I see. That does reduce its value accordingly."

"What's your offer?"

There was a slight hesitation, as though Cog were put off by Sam's abrupt descent to the bottom line. "Have a look under your chair."

Sam's questing hand found an envelope. Opening the rough plastic seal, he pulled out a resume for one Charley Mitchner, a disability pensioner. The other sheet of paper read "2,000, nuyen" in typescript. The resume looked good to Sam. Low-profile and totally unremarkable. A Mister Nobody was just what he needed, but the cash offer was too low. "You can do better, Cog. There was more cash on the credstick."

"I have transaction expenses, Twist."

"I have expenses, too, and I need equipment."

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

In the end, Sam walked out of the pawn shop as Charley Mitchner, former packer for Natural Vat and regular relief claimant on SIN 555-405-6778-9024. A hand-held data reader and a bug scanner weighed down one pocket of his vest. In the other was a box of ammo for the Narcoject and a slip of paper with the address of his new residence, a squat in an old relocation development in western Bellevue near the Redmond Barrens. His pocket bulged with a wad of 3,330 nuyen. He dumped 50 of that on access to the public Matrix to leave a message for Dodger in the prearranged mailbox.

Dodger leaned on the fire escape railing and sighed. He didn't need cybernetic ears or even his Elven hearing to catch the rhythmic sounds and breathy gasps coming from the squat through the open window. The two inside would know that he was waiting. Ghost Who Walks Inside's auditory enhancements would have picked up Dodger mounting the ladder. The Elf suspected that the street samurai could also monitor the challenges of his tribe's sentries at either end of the alley.

The alley was typical of the Redmond Barrens—a malodorous, clogged byway set in a neighborhood of moldering urban blight. The grimy brick wall of the neighboring tenement and the refuse-strewn concrete were hardly fit for contemplation. Dodger turned his attention to the mouth of the alley, where the flickering glare of a neon sign cast mad rainbows over the three guards.

Local residents must find the trio's warpaint, feathers, and fringed synthleather garments a routine sight, for this turf belonged to the Full Moon Society. Like most of the gangs in the Barrens, they provided soldiers, protection, and what passed for law and order in this part of the corp-forsaken slum. Unlike other gangs and freelancers who affected Indian fashions, the Society members actually had Indian blood. The Full Moon Society was the physical muscle of Ghost Who Walks Inside's urban tribe.

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 handful of 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 city tribes were bound by skin color and outlook rather than the traditional affiliations, and dressed in a mixture of styles drawn from traditional garb, White 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. Their type was 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 couldn't let him 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 salaryman 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."

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."