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  When the telecom beeped to announce conclusion, she closed the capture file and blanked out the data window. “Got it,” she told him. “Chipped and locked. Ready to receive payment?”

  He didn't answer, but her screen showed his system was already set up to accept the transfer of credit. It took less than a second—One thousand nuyen, just like that. Oh, well, easy come easy go. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said with a chuckle. “Now, how about the business of doing pleasure with you?”

  She stared at him, knowing he could read the shock in her face. He couldn’t mean that, could he? she thought with a start. From anyone else it would have been a blatant pick-up line. But not from Louis, whose warped and childlike body wasn’t capable of anything even remotely resembling sex. Was it?

  He laughed, a grotesque bubbling sound, and a gobbet of saliva dribbled down his chin. “Gotcha,” he crowed. “Five points on that one. Ah, poor Sly, still no sense of humor.”

  Humor? She looked at the slug-like decker with distaste. “Yeah, Louis,” she said flatly, “you got me.” She reached out to break the connection.

  “Hey, wait.”

  She drew back her finger.

  “What about the other file?” he asked.

  “What file?”

  He shook his head. “The file I got from the dying decker,” he said, speaking slowly as if talking to a congenital idiot. “The file he passed me before he died. Do you want it?”

  “Don’t you want it?”

  He shook his head again, more vehemently. “No," he snapped. “No, I don’t want it. It’s bad luck. Bad karma.”

  For the hundredth—or was it the thousandth?—time, Sly wondered about the strange superstitions that so many deckers seemed to carry around with them. How could people who dealt exclusively with hard, cold technology be so worried about mumbo-jumbo like “bad karma”?

  And it wasn’t just Louis. Just about every decker she knew practiced some special ritual or wore one talisman or other to bring good luck on Matrix runs. (Sly’s right hand strayed to the pouch on her belt where she kept her rabbit’s foot—a real rabbit’s foot, not something patched together from synthetic fur—that she’d always carried on shadowruns for luck. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt for being judgmental. But this is different, she thought. Isn’t it?)

  “You can have the file,” Louis was saying. “Free of charge, a bonus. Drek, maybe it’ll be worth something to you.”

  She hesitated. “You said it was locked. Did you crack the encryption?”

  Yet again he shook his head, looking quite uncomfortable now. “No,” he barked. Then with an effort Louis brought himself back under control. “No,” he said more quietly. “I didn't touch it. Get ready to receive. Here it comes.”

  Hurriedly, Sly opened another capture file—just in time to catch the data suddenly pouring into her computer. Again she opened an on-screen window to see what she was getting. But this time, instead of orderly lines of text, the window filled with garbled characters—letters and numbers mixed with arcane-Iooking graphics characters.

  The transfer took a couple of seconds, which meant it was a big file. She checked the status line at the bottom of the screen. More than a hundred megapulses of data.

  Transfer complete, she closed the file. “Thanks, Louis,” she said dryly.

  He shrugged. “If it’s not worth anything, just blow it away,” he said. “It’s yours, do what you like with it. I didn’t even keep a copy.”

  Which meant, of course, that he had kept a copy of the file on Morgenstern. But that was okay; most deckers kept copies of the files they “liberated.” It was a kind of rudimentary insurance against Mr. Johnsons who believed the old saw about dead men and tales. Sly expected it. “Okay, Louis.” Again she reached out to break the connection.

  “Catch ya, Sly,” the decker said. And he grinned again. “And if you give any thought to my other suggestion—” But she cut him off before he could finish.

  She stretched her back again, felt the vertebrae in her lower spine click back into place. Frag this getting old drek, she thought savagely. Seattle, and, more specifically, the shadows she’d been frequenting for the past thirteen years, just wasn’t the place for someone feeling her age. She glanced at the holograph taped to the gray wall over the telecom. A white-sand beach, green ocean, azure sky. Somewhere in the Caribbean League, but she didn’t know just where. Now that was where she should be, someplace where the cold and damp never slotted up her knee. Yep, it was getting nigh on time to retire.

  But retiring takes nuyen, she reminded herself, a lot of nuyen. She considered bringing up her credit balance on the telecom screen, then decided against it. Too depressing. Most runners burned up their nuyen on high living and parties, but she’d made a habit of always squirreling away as much as possible. She figured she had maybe seventy thousand nuyen by now. A good balance, but way short of what she thought of as “frag you” money—the amount she’d need to kiss Seattle goodbye, pull a quick fade, and slide on down to the islands. She needed a few more good scores or maybe one serious windfall. I need to make a killing, she thought glumly.

  She glanced at the telecom screen. The window was still open, filled with encrypted text. Maybe it’s worth something, she mused, then shook her head with a smile. Wishful thinking. Wishful thinking doesn’t get you money, it gets you dead. Probably the file contained data valuable to Yamatetsu Corporation, which had encrypted it, but worthless to anyone else.

  Her watch beeped. Time to meet with the Johnson who’d hired her, and pass over the dirt on Morgenstern. The run, which she’d simply subcontracted to Louis, would net her about ten thousand nuyen, of which she’d be able to save maybe half. Better than nothing, but still not “frag you” money.

  She closed the data window and powered down the telecom. The encrypted file, whatever it was, was saved to an optical storage chip; it wouldn’t be going anywhere. Maybe when she had some free time she’d figure out what it was. If she ever got around to it.

  2

  2005 hours, November 12, 2053

  The alley was dark, noisome as only an alley near the Seattle docks could be. Empty, for the moment, but Falcon knew that wouldn’t last. The Disassemblers were after him. He’d opened the gap a little, but they were still close on his heels and not likely to be giving up. Any moment a group of them wearing the gray and white colors of their gang would come pounding into the alley behind him.

  The cold, damp air seared his throat, and his right side felt like somebody had slipped a stiletto into his ribs and was now playfully twisting it. His legs were lead-heavy and he could hardly feel his feet pounding against the pavement as he ran. No useful sensations—like whether he was on dry ground or sloshing through an oily slick that would land him on his face—but the burning in his thighs and calves wouldn’t go away. “I thought numbness meant no pain,” he grumbled to himself through clenched teeth.

  Falcon was halfway down the alley, pushing himself on in what he knew must look like a drunken stagger. He was a good runner, a fact in which he took great pride, and had taken off like a fleet-footed spirit the moment he’d run into the Disassemblers.

  Of course, that was many blocks ago, many alleys back. If somebody like him, young, and in good shape, was feeling so scragged, then a bunch of fat and lumbering trolls—all old, at least twenty—should be lying on the ground in crumpled masses, whooping their dinners into the gutter.

  But no, from the hoarse yells he heard behind him Falcon knew that the original posse of Diassemblers must have called for help. Maybe the initial six were busy emptying their guts, but they had friends who had joined the chase later—when they were fresh and his body was starting to hate it in a big way.

  God, I hurt, he thought. Would it hurt any less if he just stopped, collapsed behind a dumpster, and let the Disassemblers catch him? They’d beat the drek out of him, kick his hoop until he was bleeding from all orifices. But they probably wouldn’t kill him. His gang, the First Na
tion, wasn’t officially at war with the Disassemblers, not at the moment. And he hadn’t been wearing his colors or even been carrying a weapon when they’d spotted him. He hadn’t been on gang business, merely cruising out to boost some stuffers to fill his empty belly. Just fragging bad luck that one of the trolls had recognized him.

  So, no war, and he hadn’t made the potentially lethal move of wearing gang colors in a rival gang’s patch. That meant that if they caught him they’d probably be satisfied giving him a beating. And if his lousy luck turned, hopefully he wouldn’t be conscious for the whole of the festivities anyway. . . .

  But that would be quitting, and if Dennis Falk—“Falcon” to his chummers on the street—was anything at all, it wasn’t a quitter. He forced another burst of speed from his legs, ignoring the screams of his muscles.

  The alley ended, disgorging him into a narrow road running parallel with the waterfront. He was under the big Alaska Way viaduct. The sound of traffic whined by above him even at this late hour, sometime after three in the morning. He took a hard right, considered flattening himself against a wall behind yet another dumpster and waiting for the Disassemblers to pound on by, then discarded the idea. He could think about accepting the beating, about stopping and hoping the trolls would miss him, but he was just too fragging scared. And by all the spirits and totems, he had a right to be scared. What fifteen-year-old wouldn’t be with maybe a ton of trolls on his butt?

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. Soaked with sweat, his long, black hair fell into his eyes, blinding him. Then his right foot came down on something, something that rolled, throwing him off balance. He screamed in terror, struggled to keep upright. Pain—sharp, burning—lanced through his left ankle. Somehow he managed to recover, took another running step. . . .

  Falcon cried out in agony as his left ankle took the weight of his body, and it was like one of the Dissemblers already trying to tear off his foot. He pitched forward and landed hard on the rough pavement. Skidding, he tore the skin from his palms and shredded the knees of his jeans.

  Sobbing with fear and pain, he forced himself back to his feet, tested his ankle again. The agony, like molten lead in the joint, was enough to blur his vision for an instant. Broken? He didn’t think so, but it didn’t really matter. There was no way he could run any further.

  Falcon looked around wildly for cover, for somewhere to hide. There were doors in the buildings around him, but he knew they’d be locked. (Who wouldn’t lock their doors near the docks at night?) And of course there was the dumpster, just off to his right.

  Hiding behind it didn’t seem like such a good idea anymore. But hiding in it . . .

  The top of the dumpster was above Falcon's eye-level so he couldn’t see what was inside, but it certainly smelled full. The big metal lid was open, leaning back against the wall of the building. Once he was inside, it shouldn't be too hard to pull it shut. Then it would be just a matter of hoping the Disassemblers weren’t all that thorough.

  He had to hurry, though. He could hear hoarse cries of anger and the thunder of running feet. He had only seconds—if that—before the troll gangers rounded the corner and saw him.

  It wasn’t easy to climb into the dumpster with a sprained ankle, but fear spurred him on. As he dropped inside, the stench hit him like a physical blow: sour milk, urine, decaying vegetables, and a strong overtone of rotting meat. He was glad it was too dark to see what he was lying on; imagining it was making him sick enough. He stood up, keeping his balance with difficulty on the shifting garbage, then grabbed the metal lid and pulled. The rusty hinges creaked—oh, spirits and totems, what if the trolls should hear!—but the lid moved. Muscles straining against the surprisingly heavy weight, Falcon lowered the lid carefully to keep it from slamming shut. The hinges seized up before it was all the way down, leaving a gap between lid and dumpster about as wide as his palm. That was okay, though. It meant he’d be able to watch what was going on outside, while the Disassemblers wouldn’t spot him unless they shined a light in through the gap or else physically opened the dumpster. (And what would he do if that happened? Hit them with a dead cat?)

  He’d acted not a moment too soon. The first of his pursuers burst from the alley almost the instant the dumpster lid closed. The troll’s pasty face almost matched his gray and white gang colors; if the guy hadn’t been gasping like an asthmatic behemoth. Falcon would have said he looked dead. His bloodshot eyes were rolling wildly and a froth of saliva spewed from his lips.

  His heart was pounding like a high-speed trip hammer, but Falcon had to enjoy the sight. If this guy was their best runner, the trolls would have died of fragging exhaustion by now if only Falcon had been able to make it another two blocks. Then his grin faded. If they caught him now, they’d take their physical misery out on his hide. He squatted lower in the dark dumpster.

  Three more trolls lurched from the mouth of the alley, wheezing like they were about to croak. One bent over, put massive hands on his knees, and noisily emptied his guts onto the road. “Skin ’im,” he growled between retches. “Skin ’im slow wif a dull fraggin’ knife.”

  “Gotta catch the fragger first,” the leader rumbled.

  “’e’s fraggin’ gone," the smallest of the group—a comparative midget at just over two meters and maybe a hundred and ten kilos—grunted. “Just let the fragger go, and good fraggin’ riddance.”

  The leader casually slapped the smaller troll, a back-handed blow that struck with a meaty thud. The slap would have lifted Falcon off his feet and flung him into the alley wall, but it barely rocked the troll. He glared at the leader and spat on the ground, but held his tongue.

  “He ain’t too far ahead,” the leader pronounced. “I woulda had ’im if the alley was longer.”

  Don’t make me laugh, Falcon thought. If the alley was any longer, you’d be lying in it puking.

  “He ain’t far ahead,” the leader repeated. “Runnin’ like a scared fraggin’ rabbit, drekkin’ down his legs. Scragger, you and Putz go that way.” He hooked a thumb that was almost as thick as Falcon’s wrist the other way down the narrow road. “Ralph here, he comes with me.” He slapped a heavy hand on the back of the troll still hunched over a pool of vomit. “Well? Get the frag goin’.”

  The smaller troll and another stumbled off down the road, away from Falcon’s dumpster, at the closest they could get to a run. With a groan, the troll that the leader had called Ralph straightened up. The leader had already started to jog, passing so close that Falcon could smell the troll’s rancid sweat even over the reek of the dumpster. Ralph cursed, but had no choice but to follow. Passing the dumpster, he unloaded a punch into it, a blow hard enough to rock the massive box and dent the metal. Falcon ducked down low in a resurgence of terror, imagining that massive fist slamming into his own face.

  I could summon a city spirit, he thought, a great form city spirit, and send it after them. In his mind’s eye he saw the noisome garbage strewn around the street shifting as though a wind had suddenly whipped through the city, drawing together, coalescing into a huge, amorphous shape. A shape that shambled off after the retreating trolls. He could hear their screams, their pleas for mercy. And then silence. I could do it, he thought again.

  But of course that was only in his dreams. Often, when he slept, his dreams filled with a sense of power, his nerves hummed with the song of the totems. When he dreamed, Falcon knew he’d taken his first step on the path of the shaman—not through any conscious choice; it was as if it were written in his genes, as surely as his high Amerind cheekbones, dark eyes, and straight black hair.

  In his dreams, Falcon walked that path, followed the summons of the totem, the spirit that awaited him at the end. He didn’t know which totem was calling him—noble Eagle, faithful Dog, sly Coyote, stalwart Bear, or any of the many others. But he could hear the call, feel it thrilling through him, and realized that only when he reached the path’s end would he recognize who summoned him. And then he’d probably realize that a part of him
had always known.

  That was in his dreams. When he was awake? Nothing.

  No, not quite nothing. The dreams remained as memories. But that was worse than nothing. He knew, deep down inside he knew, that he would walk the path, that the totems would call him, were calling him when he slept. But a shaman must consciously choose to walk the path, that's what someone had told him long ago. He must hear the song of the totems and consciously decide to follow wherever they led. Only then could someone become a shaman. He had to seek out the song in his waking life.

  “Vision quest,” that’s what many Amerindian tribes named it, seeking out the song of the totems. Different tribes and different traditions had different ideas of how vision quests worked, but most that Falcon had heard or read about described the would-be shaman going out alone into some hostile environment—a desert, the mountains, or the forest—and staying there until he heard the call. Sometimes the seeker would find mortal friends and allies along the way, sometimes he would not. But if he was really destined to be a shaman, a guide would eventually come and reveal to him the song of the totems. This guide might be a spirit or it might be in the form of a mouse or other creature, but according to all the stories it never appeared in the form that the shaman expected.

  That was the traditional form of the vision quest, yet Falcon had heard that certain tribes had rung some very modern changes on the ritual. In the Pueblo Council, for example, he’d heard that some would-be shamans went on their vision quest into the Matrix. (What shape would a guide take there? Falcon wondered.) And then there were a number of groups—not just the new “suburban tribes” that had sprung up around the continent—that considered the city a reasonable place for a vision quest. Would-be shamans would leave their homelands to travel to the sprawls—admittedly, as hostile an environment as anywhere else in North America—and there they’d wait for their guide to come and lead them to the totems.