Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

Toward dusk, Sam's wandering led him to a park near the big, blocky building that had been the natural history museum. It was still a museum, but its exhibits now dealt almost exclusively with Indian culture. He thought about checking to see what they had on Howling Coyote, but seeing that he would need to use one of his credsticks for the admission fee, he decided against it. Too much of a tourist thing. Smith and his friends were locals.

So he sat on a sloping hill and looked out across the meadows and trees. The natural space was so extensive that he suspected it had been enlarged from the days when Denver had belonged to the United States. He had a harder time imagining a U.S. city leaving enough space to let the deer he had glimpsed roam free. The coming night was enlivening some of the animals in the nearby zoo and he heard an assortment of roars and bellows. He wondered if it was feeding time. Looking at the mixed crowds passing through the park, he knew it would be soon. For the wild animals of the streets and the human hunters that stalked the parklands, anyway.

Sam assessed the people playing at sports, jogging along the pathways, wandering along the walks, and sitting on the grass as he was. Visually, he fit in with most of the passersby. Though bolstered weapons were not universal, many of the people he observed wore them. His own Narcoject Lethe wouldn't look out of place, but that was no surprise, for he had checked the firearms regulations before leaving Seattle. What he wasn't used to seeing were the many people in leathers and synthleathers. Even with all the knots and talismans tied into the fringe of his jacket, Sam looked right at home. A lot of the locals had good luck charms hanging froTh their clothes or incorporated as paintings or beadwork. The Indian fashion craze was even stronger here than in Seattle, and the Plains Indian style more common. With the Sioux in charge of the zone, that certainly made sense.

Night was the best time for shadow work. Soon it would be time to cross into the Ute zone. But then what? He had some digging to do, but that wasn't necessarily night work. A lot of the people he wanted to talk to were probably day folk. Certainly, they held SIN numbers and went dutifully to work the way Sam once did. He didn't want to wait another day to get started, but how to do it?

Sarn wished Hart were here. She knew Denver. He sorted through the credsticks, looking for the one she had given"him. It held the entry codes to a safehouse whose address she had made him memorize. She had only told him of the one place, but Sam was sure she knew more. With Denver divided into zones, each the responsibility of a different government, a single hiding place didn't seem sufficient. Though most of Hart's background was still a mystery to him, he knew she was a shadowrunner of international repute. Not to have a refuge in each of Denver's jurisdictions would have left her too vulnerable. She simply hadn't shared everything with him. A hedge against the future, he supposed. He hoped it was one she'd never need. Sam didn't want to lose her. He was happy in her company, as though she were the complement to his spirit. He trusted her with his secrets. Why didn't she trust him? Was he doing something wrong? Maybe if they had some time together, away from the shadows. But that wasn't likely to happen until Janice was cured.

His own worries seemed so petty compared to what Janice was going through.

He wanted to call Ghost and find out how she was doing, but he couldn't, of course. Ghost and Janice were somewhere in Salish-Shidhe Council lands and out of regular communication. They had all agreed that would be best. No one wanted Council troops tracking transmissions. Ghost would be making irregularly spaced reports like the one that had been waiting for Sam at the drop. But those messages were so frustrating. There was no way to carry on a conversation, no way to assure Janice that he was doing his best.

The sun had vanished behind the mountains now, and night was finally settling into place. It was time to go. Sam got to his feet and started down to the path that curved around the pond. He joined the folk leaving the park, abandoning it to night and the predators who only prowled in the dark. He had so little time, and so much to do.

Neko Noguchi was pleased with himself. He had acquired information without a hitch in the acquisition run. It wasn't on the topic for which the elf paid the highest premium, but it was still eminently salable. That, however, was not the cause of his rejoicing. One did not get excited over the expected. The impending disposition of his haul was another matter. He had gotten past the middle man.

Cog had declined involvement when Neko had told the fixer's agent (unfortunately not the delightful Mo-nique) that he had come into possession of "more of the same." The fixer had arranged for a direct contact with the decker elf, who had asked Neko to continue his investigations, no doubt believing, as Neko intended, that tfeko meant the stuff had been acquired from Grandmother. Though his plan worked, it surprised Neko that the fixer stepped aside so easily. His fear of angering Grandmother must be very great. Cog's anger would also be real if he ever learned that Neko's latest offering had been obtained without coming anywhere near Grandmother's widespread connections. That didn't count the subject of the investigation, however, for one could not do much of anything in the world without a connection to Grandmother. But though agents and subjects were very different matters, no fixer liked to be tricked into losing his percentage.

It had been too easy, but Neko wasn't worried. Cog might get mad if he found out, but he would take no action. Neko was too good a source. A few bargains and a freebie or two would placate the fixer. "Oil in the works," as Cog himself liked to say. Biz was biz, one thing that Cog understood best. He wouldn't like it, but he would understand.

Neko negligently flipped the chip case as he watched the crowds. So many good little salarymen from all over the world, rushing about their oh-so-ordered lives and rubbing shoulders with the street people and the proles. He had heard that the Enclave had not always been this way. Oh, rich and poor sharing sweat, for sure. That was eternal in the cramped streets. But the" oldsters said the population had once been almost exclusively Chinese, with only the occasional foreigner.

It was hard to imagine now. The enclave had become truly international, with its balance of round Chinese faces, sleek Japanese visages like Neko's own, the angular gauntness of the Caucasians, and the occasional darkness of Africans and other Blacks become so natural a part of the city's character. How could it ever have belonged to the Chinese?

Whatever its history, Neko savored the city now. It was said that if half the Enclave's population were to come to street level all at once, they would suffocate in the closeness. It was an exaggeration, of course, but a good image for the teeming multitudes, shoulder to shoulder and always moving. All those ears, and none remained still long enough to hear. So many eyes, fixed on sights other than him. He loved it.

The street telecom by which he stood chirped. He slid away from the wall and leaned into the privacy shield. He had already installed an override on the telecom vid pickup so he couldn't be seen unless he wished to be. With a flick of a ringer, he activated the circuit. The screen remained black, but he said "Moshi, moshi," anyway.

"State your business," responded a voice fuzzed with electronic distortion. A cautious one, this elf.

"You got the spec on the first call. Along with the rules. You want transfer, or do I find another market?" That was a bluff. Neko didn't know anybody who would want the stuff. He could most certainly find someone, but the time it took would devalue the information. As always, realizing maximum profit required a fast deal. He thought he'd hosed it, but at last the screen flickered and the head and shoulders of an elf appeared in three-quarter view. The hair was shorter and styled differently from the virtual image Neko had seen, but the turn of the pointed ears, the long, straight line of the nose, and the slim line of the jaw were familiar. A datacord arced from the elf's far temple toward a spot beneath the image area. Overly cautious, this elf, but in another way bold, if he thought to break the unwritten rules of the not-place by offering a modified virtual image when he visited. Neko decided to test the sensitivity of that issue with a probe for a reaction.