Find Your Own Truth Page 5

  What a coup! His first time eavesdropping on the infamous Grandmother, and he had scored. That would make his name in the shadows. Neko Noguchi was on his way to becoming a big man in the biz.

  But he was no fool to waste this opportunity. With absolutely no hint that he had been detected, he could afford to stay for a while longer. No telling what else he might learn.

  He settled himself to wait for Grandmother’s next visitor. The rhythmic clatter of the loom had an almost hypnotic quality that lulled him. His mind drifted, dreaming of the juicy bits he would gather while listening in on the doings of Grandmother. Then he started back to full awareness, unsure of what had changed.

  Grandmother continued her weaving. No one had come to disturb her. But there was something. Yes, there it was. A noise in ducting.

  A maintenance drone or a rigger-run cleaning robot? Either would be a problem. The dog-brain in a drone wouldn’t be bright enough to recognize him, but the stupid thing might try to clean him out of the duct, a process that would be most painful. If it were a robot, a rigger could ID him as an intruder and would report his presence. That would make departure much more complicated and cancel any chance of returning another day. He did not want his hole through Grandmother’s security sealed; it was his doorway to fortune.

  The scraping sound came again, accompanied by a softer brushing noise. It was not a scrubbing rotor. What was it? It didn’t sound mechanical. The important point was that it sounded nearer. Discretion being the better part of profits, Neko decided to leave.

  His joints had stiffened less than might have been expected. A brisk crawl would have them loose again. He moved quietly from his perch. Once away from where he thought noise of his movement could be transmitted to Grandmother’s sanctum, he moved more briskly. Several turns later, he heard the sound again. Was it following him?

  He was not far from his exit, but increased his pace anyway. He had no desire to be caught in the duct. Those dark confines left Neko no room to use his justly famed agility.

  He twisted himself through the last turn and saw light slitting through the grating by which he had entered. Pausing only long enough to assure himself that no one occupied the storeroom beyond, he dug loose the putty holding the panel in place. He held it with one hand as he shimmied his torso clear. His free hand held him up as he worked his knees clear, then his feet. He dropped nearly noiselessly to the box beneath the opening.

  He was out, unconfined. He grinned. Whatever roamed the ducts of Grandmother’s fortress had not caught him.

  As he reached up to replace the grating, something black, glistening-hard, and studded with coarse hairs reached through the slats. In startled reaction Neko jerked back, hands still clutching the duct cover. There was a rasping sound as metal slid along the twitching thing, then Neko was jerked back toward the wall. The black thing clamped onto the grating and Neko let go. The panel slammed crossways across the opening, crumpling as it was withdrawn into the darkness.

  As it disappeared a second black thing scythed out of the duct, sweeping toward Neko’s head. He ducked into a crouch. While the sharp, hooked end of the thing scraped along the wall, he uncoiled into a back flip. He landed surefooted, ready to run but unwilling to turn his back on the unknown thing in the duct.

  An ominous silence descended on the storeroom.

  Neko bunched the muscles of his left forearm as he twisted it, triggering the release of the carbon-fiber blades from their forearm sheath. Four monofiber-edged cutters slid forward to project seven centimeters past his cocked wrist. In close they would make sushi out of muscle and tissue, but he had seen the strength of whatever it was. He was not sure he wanted to get that close to it. He rejected his pistol; noise was as much his enemy as the whatever-it-was. His right hand slipped a throwing spike from among the half-dozen sheathed along his thigh. At ranges under five meters, his skill made the silvered steel as deadly as the pistol. Thumb holding the spike against his palm and fingers, he raised his hand into throwing position.

  Again he heard the scraping, brushing sound that had pursued him through the ducts. Slowly the black claws appeared, and gripped the edges of the opening. The claws hauled a grotesque bulk into view, and he began to think he would have been better off running.

  The claw-tipped things were arms, inhumanly thin and oddly jointed, but arms nonetheless. They grew from shoulders that barely humped above the swollen and bloated belly of the creature that tumbled from the duct. Its legs, almost duplicates of the arms, slithered free of the darkness as the thing dropped to the floor. It steadied itself for a moment on all fours before rising to stand in an insectoid parody of a man. Tattered cloth hung on its torso, snagged and split by bristly hairs. It was as tall as a troll, making it nearly three times Neko’s height. Malevolent onyx eyes stared down at him from a face totally inhuman.

  Deciding he could not afford to let it make the first move, Neko blurred into action. His hand snapped forward, releasing the spike and sending it speeding toward the obscene visage. The steel pierced its right eye, popping the orb in a gush of dark fluid. The thing made no sound as the bulbous head wobbled and the creature scraped at the spike with a claw until the weapon dropped free.

  Then it sprang.

  Neko barely dodged its first swipe, A claw snagged his clothes, gouging his flesh and tugging him back toward the creature. Twisting around, he slashed with his blades. He felt two of the edges strike the hard limb and slide, barely cutting. The other two sliced through the fabric of his clothes and freed him. He fell, hitting the floor hard.

  Coming at him with both claw-tipped, glittering arms, the creature gave him no respite. Hoping to surprise it, Neko rolled forward. As it jerked its head to follow his motion, Neko felt the foul-smelling liquid from the thing’s destroyed eye spatter him. Its claws almost caught him as he slipped between its legs.

  He sent a second spike whipping toward the base of its skull, but the creature was turning and the weapon only glanced off hard bone. The thing rushed him again and he dodged toward its right side, cutting with his blades as he dove.

  They danced a deadly, silent tarantella. Neko worried the thing’s blind side, tearing at its limbs with his blades. His strikes were rarely clean, the monofiber edges of his weapons doing little more than scar the hard outer covering of the creature’s appendages. It was well-protected. Whether it was armor, magic, or its own skill did not matter; it was wearing Neko down. He remained unable to close with it and bring his blades into contact with something vital.

  His growing fatigue was making it more and more difficult to react quickly enough. First a claw raked his arm and scored the muscle, then the other caught him a glancing blow across the ribs, lacerating clothing and skin while tossing him halfway across the room. Half stunned, his eyes watering from the pain, Neko almost forfeited his phyrrhic respite. He had barely grabbed a new throwing spike before a new attack forced him to scramble away from the onrushing creature. Watching for an opening, he continued his desperate dodging. He doubted he’d have the opportunity to draw another spike. He had to make his throw.

  His chance came after he had ducked low to avoid a sweeping blow and the creature’s clawed limb became briefly entangled in the wreckage of the crate Neko had maneuvered between them. Neko’s hand snapped up, then forward. The spike flew. Though not striking cleanly, the sharp spike scored the creature’s remaining eye.

  Blinded, its defenses faltered into a still dangerous but unguided flailing. Neko slipped through its guard to plant his blades in the soft tissue between the skull and carapace shoulders. The monofiber edges sliced arteries, veins, and windpipe before grating against bone. The creature collapsed with a bubbling moan. Panting, Neko skipped backward to avoid its thrashing.

  It took a long time to die.

  There was no chance the carnage would go unnoticed. Neko’s pipeline into Grandmother’s secrets would be closed, leaving him only what he had learned today. He had best make the most of it. His blood spattered the roo
m, offering a trail to those who would seek him in the shadows. To close that avenue to pursuers, he disabled the sprinklers and used the cleaning supplies stored there to start a hungry fire. He would leave only ashes behind.

  * * *

  Urdli watched as the kulpunya ran in circles on the runway, howling in frustration. The thing was baffled by the loss of the trail, but Urdli understood. For all its supernatural tracking ability, the kulpunya could not follow a trail through the air. The thieves had escaped by aircraft.

  He turned his eyes to the sky, where the running lights of an aircraft rose into the night over Perth. The craft headed west, turning into the air lanes that skirted the coast. It was on its way to the outside world.

  Oh, no. It was not going to be simple at all.

  7

  The Magick Matrix was the glittering star of the entertainment district of the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave. The club was a haven for enclavers jaded by ordinary reality. Within its walls, patrons could leave behind their meat shells and step into other realities—computer realities whose governing principles the user could select. Those custom creations would let a user look like anyone, be anywhere, and do anything, as long as he had the nuyen to pay for it. And he could do it all without working up a sweat. All it took was putting on the trodes or jacking in if he wanted the best resolution and response. Then he could dream away while the gnomes of the Magick Matrix zapped him into a pocket universe of cyberspace.

  The hardware was expensive and the software more so. Protecting the investment was a wide array of intrusion countermeasures, ranging from simple data barriers to the brain-frying IC known in the trade as black ice. In addition Magick Matrix was well supplied with roving deckhounds, the human computer-security specialists who jacked in to prowl the Matrix, alert for unauthorized users. Mortal flesh and tissue-bound minds lacked the purity and beauty of the elegant IC. Bound by organic nature, mankind also lacked the selfless devotion. But even the masters of such magnificent technology did not have absolute faith in it, and so they assured a weakness in their defenses.

  Thus, with the transmission of a prearranged code, Dodger passed through the boundaries of the Magick Matrix icon. Inside, an icon depicting a robotic canine awaited him. The dog wore a dark collar showing the name of Magick Matrix, marking the decker behind the icon as an employee of the firm and labeling him a hound But even dogs have friends about whom their masters know nothing, and to their friends they show the loyalty of the pack. This decker, whom Dodger knew as Rover, believed he shared a very elite pack with Dodger. Rover spoke of the brotherhood of silicon blood, sharers of the true way under the electron skies. He admitted admiring and envying the skill of the freelance deckers like Dodger. For the sake of the Art, Rover opened the door and let the deckers in. But Dodger had no illusions about how friendly Rover would be if Dodger messed with MM property. The bought dogs knew who fed them. No matter how much they idolized the wild members of their pack, they loved their kennels more.

  Dodger had not come to steal the secrets of Magick Matrix. He had come for an appointment. For amid all the fantasy worlds, alien planets, battlescapes, and synthetic paradises, there was another non-place. It was a reality not listed among the offerings of Magick Matrix because it was a place of, by, and for deckers—but accessible only to the elite. Like the well-known virtual club Syberspace, if you couldn’t hack your way in you didn’t belong. The more difficult level of entry made this place with no name more than a slot to interface with the legends and wannabes of the Matrix. Offering the same functions of hiring hall, message center, and data brokerage as Syberspace, this place had a feature the other lacked. Here, through the access ports of Magick Matrix, meat clients could consult the elite of the Matrix within the Matrix in a safe and secret manner.

  Today, the decker was to be the client. For Dodger had come because someone had posted an e-mail in response to an outstanding offer. The poster might have legitimate information, but he could as easily be an opportunist or a con man. Dodger didn’t expect a lot, but he had played more than his share of long shots in his time running the shadows. At least this one was not likely to be particularly dangerous.

  Since the misadventures in England last year, he had sought out any information on the mysterious Matrix entity that he believed to be the artificial intelligence created by the Renraku Special Directorate. It had reappeared, very briefly, during the affair with the renegade druids known as the Hidden Circle, reminding Dodger of its terrible and fascinating existence. At the time he had feared that some faction involved in aiding or fighting the Circle was managing the AI, but so little had come of its actions that he had begun to wonder. His cautious delvings—and the less-cautious blunderings of other deckers excited by Dodger’s own panic—had uncovered very little. The fragmentary data that passed for clues was more often apocryphal than authentic. Though he had begun to think the apparition within the druids’ computer architecture a phantasm of his own creation, born of fear and anxiety, he hadn’t abandoned the search. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Sam’s stubbornness was rubbing off on him.

  Dodger tapped MM’s monitor system to survey the virtual room before entering. The feed from Simtank 737 was pure, so he knew that the icon awaiting him was as perfect a replica of the person in the tank as Magick Matrix’s technology could provide, which was to say a photographic likeness. His contact was a slim Japanese male who would stand well below average height. The runner appeared young, almost a child, but good biosculpting could mask a person’s age. He was smartly dressed in streetwear that hung with the smoothness of armor cloth, and Dodger’s practiced eye noted that he had managed to conceal several weapons from the guards who had checked him into the sim-tank. An impressive feat, but to be expected of a successful shadowrunner. An experienced professional, then. That was encouraging; amateurs rarely knew real data from drek.

  Dodger injected his icon into the virtual room. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

  The Japanese runner turned smartly, hand wavering over one of his concealed weapons. His eyes glittered, and his stance was as wary as the animal he named. “Cat.”

  “An appropriate street sobriquet for one of your fluidity, Sir Feline.”

  “You’re an elf.”

  “Astute." Dodger observed dryly. His opinion of the runner dropped. One of the unwritten rules of the not-place was that a decker was expected to use a virtual image of his person rather than his usual Matrix icon. “Hubris." his sometime-partner Jenny called the affectation. He preferred to think of it as pride in accomplishment. Besides, one’s colors were more properly reserved for the real work of running the Matrix. More practically, a client might later recognize a decker’s workings if he knew the icon under which the decker operated. The decker’s appearance was harder to trace, for there were no physical traces to collect, nor could a client retrieve an image from the not-place. The client would have only memory, and that could be made less reliable if the decker’s features were slightly and subtly altered as Dodger had done. “Is that a problem?”

  Cat performed an elaborate shrug. “Not really. Long as you don’t pay in elf gold.”

  Dodger gave a shrug of his own, one infinitely more stylish. “My credit is good, Sir Feline. Better, no doubt, than your own. But you must needs convince me of your data’s verity before a transfer is arranged.”

  Cat smiled tightly. “Grandmother believed it when the suit told her.”

  “Grandmother?” Dodger hid his surprise as well as he could. If Cat was her intermediary, the information had to be good. And expensive. “ ’Twould be folly to question the quality of Grandmother’s offerings. And even greater folly still to believe that a mere mention of her name signified her instigation, or even knowledge, of a deal.”

  “You want the data or not?”

  Cat’s haste was unseemly. Dodger decided to try a thrust. “My interest wanes. Having failed to use her usual protocols, you are branded as an adventurer trading on an excellent shadow reputatio
n.”

  A stricken face and a sudden increase in Cat’s breathing rate told Dodger he had guessed right. Cat was not part of Grandmother’s organization. The runner’s next move would tell the tale truly.

  Cat’s smile returned, a shadow of its former self. “I never said I worked for her. I just said she believed the data.”

  So. Such a rapid retreat to truth implied desperation. A desperate man had little bargaining room. “I have no desire to pay her rates to verify your tale. How shall I know you hold something of worth to me?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “I need do no such thing. Speak to me of your find. If ’tis of use to me, I shall pay your fee.”

  “Pay first." Cat insisted bluntly.

  “This from one who so recently demanded trust. I cannot know the worth of what you offer until I hear it. Then there is still the matter of reliability.”

  Cat’s furrowed brow proclaimed his inner debate. There was nothing he could do to hurt Dodger physically. But he could cripple Dodger where it would hurt severely, in his curiosity. If Cat walked away with whatever mysterious bit of information he hoarded, Dodger would have no alternative but to go to Grandmother, who might or might not have the data. It would be an expensive proposition that would take time— time to gather the funds and time during which the elf would have no idea of what he labored to earn. Dodger watched the runner carefully, wondering if his desire for the data was as painfully obvious as Cat’s need for nuyen. He thought not. After all, he was nowhere near as young or inexperienced as Cat.

  “All right, elf. Twenty K bonded credit and the deal’s done.”

  “Five bonded and ten in second-tier corporate vouchers.”

  “Ten and five.”

  “Seven and seven.”

  “You’ll pay even if you don’t like what I’ve got to say.”

  “Assuredly. I will pay whether ’tis pleasant or not.” Cat stuck out his hand and Dodger took it.