Never deal with a Dragon

40

The Elven decker’s directions had been accurate, even though his description of the final destination was not. Dodger said it was an antique shop, but the sign proclaimed it a pawn shop and offered cash for credsticks and corporate vouchers. Sam did see the ornately carved cuckoo clock Dodger had said would be in one barred window. The hands were frozen at two o’clock. if this was the place, that was a sign Cog the fixer was in and open for business.

As Sam entered, he heard no chime and saw no surveillance devices, but was sure they knew he was here. Skirting several islands of junk, he made his way to the back counter where, ensconced at one end and shielded by an actual cash register machine, a wizened old man sat reading last month’s Intelligencer.

“Excuse me, I saw the clock in the window. Is it for sale?”

Gray eyes regarded him from under busy brows and behind old-fashioned spectacles perched precariously on the tip of the man’s nose. “Sold it yesterday. Didn’t you see the tag?”

“I thought that I might outbid another purchaser.”

“You need to talk to the owner.”

“That’s right. I need to talk to the owner.”

The old man reached under the counter. With a loud snick, a door in the back wall popped ajar. Sam thought he also heard a softer, echoing click from the front door, the sound of a bolt sliding closed. The caution of the fixer’s minion was apt. Those who dwelt in the shadows must take precautions. Remember, you’re one of them now.

“Go on in,” the man prompted. “Sit down and wait.”

Sam walked through the door, seeing no other visible way into or out of the bare-walled cubicle of a room. The only piece of furniture was a steel-framed chair fitted with soft, slick cushions. When he sat down, the door closed, apparently of itself, and he heard the lock engage. Sounds from the street had filtered into the shop, but no trace disturbed the quiet of this little room. He waited patiently for five minutes, by his watch. Then he waited another ten impatiently before a voice spoke to him.

“I do not know your face. Who are you?”

Sam could not discern the source of the voice, but he was sure it was electronically processed to change its characteristics. The person behind the voice would be none other than Cog.

“Twist.”

“Dodger’s friend?”

“That’s right.”

The fixer was silent for a moment. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

In reply, Sam merely shrugged, sure that his disembodied questioner could see the gesture, If the fixer had heard that Sam was dead, perhaps Drake had, too.

“Do you have proof of who you say you are?”

Sam shrugged again. “Dodger said you were a good connection.”

“Now I know you are lying.”

“Dodger said that you’d say that.”

A thin chuckle. “Perhaps you are Twist. If so, you have proven remarkably resilient. Perhaps we can do business. What can I do for you until we establish your bona fides?”

“I need some cash and a place to stay. And I need an identity.”

“And in exchange?”

Sam pulled his trade goods from the pocket of his vest and held them up one by one. “An I.D. packet for one Edward Vinson. A credstick tagged to Samiel Voss. A pair of data chips, late of a small genetic research firm just north of here.”

“The last is a recent acquisition?”

Sam smiled inwardly at the hint of interest seeping through the modulated words. “Very.”

“Place them under the chair.”

“I’m supposed to trust you with it?”

“Dodger said I was a good connection.”

“So he did.” To Cog, Sam was a stranger, possibly a corporate plant or just a hustler peddling a sharp deal. The fixer wanted to verify the material, but he offered no surety. Trust could only be built on trust, and someone had to take the first step. Sam didn’t want to trust a faceless voice, but his need outweighed caution. He put the chip case and the cards on the floor and slid them under the chair. “Now what?”

He got no answer. Then realized that was his answer. Leaning to look under his seat, he saw that his goods were gone. He straightened and settled back to wait.

Lofwyr had supplied the Edward Vinson identity. In giving it up, Sam was throwing away a potentially useful resource. The fictional Vinson had a townhouse in Seattle proper, a comfortable and nondemanding Matrix research slot with Aztechnology, and a System Identification Number that would have allowed Sam easy passage through most of the metroplex. Without that SIN, Sam was barred from some of the places where he hoped to hunt Drake. But with it, Lofwyr would likely be able to monitor everything Sam did within the public Matrix, tracking his use of facilities and observing any financial transactions Sam made using the identity. Until Vinson evaporated, he could open doors, but evaporation was a good possibility after Sam had used Lofwyr’s chip to access Genomics research files. He had done it even though sure the Dragon would object. To punish Sam, Lofwyr might make Edward Vinson vanish, leaving Sam high and dry at some Lone Star checkpoint or corporate security desk.

Trust and caution at war again.

The Dragon had helped Sam because he wanted something from Sam. And when Lofwyr had that, then what? A reward of money, safety, teaching, and assistance in finding his sister. Would the Dragon keep his word?

If Lofwyr were trustworthy, his offer would stand after Sam settled with Drake, whether or not he used the Vinson identity. If Lofwyr trusted him, no problem, If Lofwyr didn’t trust him, the Dragon might consider Sam’s sale of the identity a theft of property. Who could know what a Dragon might think?

Caution argued that he was better off making it harder for anyone, including Lofwyr, to track him. Caution suggested he was safer if his benefactors did not know his plans and actions. Caution warned him to trust no one but himself. That was why Sam had come to Cog. Caution’s voice was more insistent than trust’s.

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 draco forms 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 moment 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 he 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 it’s 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.