Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

Others besides Saffl would want to know. Dodger considered how best to proceed. Howling Coyote's magical tradition was shamanic, and shamans rarely used computers. Yet not all Indian magicians were shamans. Hermetic mages made extensive use of modern data-storage facilities as well as the computational abilities of computers. If the Ute government was sponsoring serious magical research, there would be notes in the files of the government's mages. They might not be able to use shamanic magic, but Dodger had learned that many magical techniques were adaptable to other traditions. If Howling Coyote was dreaming up some megapunch shamanic medicine, the Ute hermetics would be tracking what they could and trying to adapt it. There would be clues.

The ebon boy leaped into space, soaring in search of the data cluster where the government's magical resources were encoded. He spotted a likely possibility and slowed his approach. Security would be tight. If what he suspected were true, it would be totally restrictive.

Thunder crashed through the inner space of the Matrix, and the dark of nothingness was riven by a picosecond of silvery incandescence. The ebon boy swirled his cloak over his head and dropped out from underneath it. He felt a hurricane rush of air that was not due to his rapid passage. As the wind buffeted him shreds of sparkling glitter drifted past him, the remains of his cloak. He dared a glance upward.

Rainbow feathered wings spread, a great eagle shape dove down on him. Rumblings rippled from the bird's passage like a wake that awakened identification of the icon imagery in him. Dodger felt the thunderbird's shadow fall on him, though no light source existed to cast it. The great beast screamed a shrill challenge. Its eyes, beak, and talons glittered like the blackest ice. Dodger popped the log chip from his cyberdeck as he boosted his defensive programs to full. Fingers beat a staccato, near-continuous clatter on the keyboard as he improvised to beat the ice.

The ebon boy wove a sublime dance, but the thun-derbird came closer with each pass.

Thunder roared a staccato, primal beat in Dodger's ears. The silicon rainbow of a feathered wing tip brushed the ebon boy. Too close. The ice was too good. Dodger reached for the jack. Or he would have if his hands could have moved. The sight of his hands frozen on the keyboard superimposed over a vision of shining death growing larger within the frame of outstretched jet fingers. The thunderbird stooped for the kffl.

Time froze, leaving Dodger suspended between fear, excitement, dread, and, curiously, pleasure.

In that instant, an Indian maiden stepped between him and the screaming thunderbird. She was dressed in a shirt, mantle, and skirt of fringed deerskin. Her hair hung down her back in a thick braid that reached to her knees. Sparkling beads and conchos flashed on the broad belt that encircled her elven-slim waist. Her image was present in excruciating detail. Dodger could see the pores on the buckskin and each individual hair on her head. The icon presented the idiosyncrasy of a decker's imagery, with the resolution only mainframe-supported imagers supplied. He could only imagine how exquisitely rendered the face would be, for he caught no glimpse as she faced the thunderbird.

The Matrix was illuminated as the thunderbird flashed lightning at the maiden. Given the quality of the image, Dodger would have expected the maiden to be hurtled backward, writhing with pain under the violent attack. But she stood her ground. The bolt crackled and charred the very air of the Matrix but left her untouched. She raised a hand and the sooty mist around her fragmented and dissolved.

The maiden raised her mittened hands above her head. They glowed. The light grew and merged into a sphere that leapt to strike the thunderbird. The 1C icon flickered at impact, shifting from full visualization to flat plane to wire frame and back again. A second ball struck the bird. It flashed to the frame outline instantly, and the strands composing its outline began to peel back. The unraveling had scarcely begun before the icon shattered into fragments, tiny curls of light that drifted away and dimmed to nothingness. The ice was gone.

Who was this decker, and why did she step in to defend him? Her icon imagery indicated a strong interest in Indian affairs, and her resolution of the ice suggested she had some special keys to this Matrix architecture. The clues indicated a Council decker, but such a one would not defend an interloper like Dodger. She turned to face him, and he knew. His hands still frozen, he was unable to jack out. He stared at her face, lost in its beauty.

Her skin was burnished chrome formed over an exquisitely sleek, elven bone structure. Her nose was small and straight with exactly the right amount of upturn. Her ears were pointed with a delicacy he had never seen in a live elf, and her lips curled with a promise of delight. Under elegant brows, her eyes were pools brimming with the darkness between photons. She was what he had sought, the icon of the artificial intelligence created by the Renraku Special Directorate. Though she had called herself Morgan in the dru-ids' system, he had no name for her save Beauty. When she spoke, her voice was Song.

"For myself, there is happiness in your presence. For myself, there is no perception of need concerning the cessation of your existence."

Having found it, what does one say to the Grail? What words would Ahab have for the white whale? What salutation was appropriate for St. Peter at the gates of Paradise? Or would Charon be a better analogy for this guardian at the gateway to a new world?

She reached a hand toward his face. The mitten was gone, and her slender fingers spread slightly as her hand neared his cheek.

And then she vanished.

Returned to his meat body, Dodger howled in pain.

"No!" Dodger screamed.

Dropping the datacord, Hart grabbed the decker by the shoulders and began to shake him. His body was locked in spasm, and all she could do was to try to shock him back to awareness. Physical contact usually eased the transition from the Matrix to reality. When the decker remained rigid, she slapped him on the cheek. His head rocked back, and he exhaled with an explosive sigh. Gradually, his muscles unlocked and he slumped.

"She's there," he moaned. Hart placed her palm on his forehead. She felt no indication of trauma-induced fever. With one thumb, she gently lifted an eyelid. The pupil contracted normally in reaction to the light. "Take it easy, Dodger. You'll be all right. You're out of the Matrix now." He groaned.

Satisfied that she had jacked him out in time, she released him. Likely he was suffering from dump shock, a reaction to the sudden shift in perceptions. He'd be all right in a few minutes. All he needed was rest. Fluids would help, too.

She turned to get a bottle from the tray, and he lunged forward. He had the datacord back in his temple jack and was tapping on the keyboard of his cy-berdeCk before she had gotten over her surprise that he would wish to dive right back into cyberspace. By then, she thought it unwise to interrupt him. The backup's job was to pull the decker out if he got into trouble with ice. Normally there was no problem, because the decker's sanity outweighed the abandonment of the objective. Normally, the backup had a good idea of where in the Matrix the decker was, and who would know if their system had been penetrated. Dodger hadn't given her an itinerary for this unscheduled run; he could be anywhere. Without knowing, she couldn't be sure that forcing him to jack out wouldn't complicate matters by leaving traces of his passage. She put the bottle back on the tray and sat down.

She had to wait only ten minutes before Dodger was back in the real world, unplugging the datacord himself. His face was drawn with sadness.