Robert Charrette - Find your own truth

"I agree. If historical research based in, shall we say, scientific curiosity were all there was to it, there would be no danger. However, we have discovered additional files, nested within a datastore, containing lists of all the legitimately held nuclear weapons remaining after the build-down."

Urdli set aside Estios' concern with a negligent wave of his hand. "Rachnei would certainly seek knowledge of currently available weapons. My understanding is that the safeguards installed to protect those devices after the Awakening should be adequate to prevent acquisition by any unauthorized party."

Estios' blue eyes glittered like ice at Urdli's dismissive gesture, but he held his temper. Anger barely colored his tone. "Where the weapons are held legitimately I would agree, but the datastore held more files nested even deeper. The encryption protecting that datafile is much better. It's locked very tightly."

"And you fear that some terrible secret is locked within that file?"

"I do," Estios stated firmly. "The technicians tried to open the file but were unable to recover much. When the code was broken, we released some kind of virus that started to devour the data. The team only got bits and pieces. We've gotten out enough to know that a handful of sites are on Grandmother's list. Each one is located near a former storage site for nuclear weapons or delivery systems."

"Suggesting that Rachnei is seeking a stockpile of nuclear weapons?"

"I believe so*"

Urdli considered the danger of such an occurrence and found it unthinkably great. He knew the ways of magic too well and how little a part coincidence played. The uncovering of Rachnei's shard could only align with the uncovering of this nuclear threat. If one was not the father of the other, they would work in concert. "And where does Verner fit into this?"

Estios shrugged his shoulders in helplessness. "We haven't figured that angle, but some connection is likely. We've learned he's headed for Denver."

"Rocky Flats," O'Connor whispered.

"Or NORAD command at Cheyenne Mountain, or any of a dozen possible places where the old U.S.A. military played their games," Estios said. "For a Caucasian like him, Denver would be the best location to work any of those sites."

"Don't be ridiculous, Estios," O'Connor said. "Verner's not working for Grandmother or Rachnei. You know him. He's not that kind."

Estios ignored her. "We've also learned that Grandmother has sent two Asian agents to Denver,''

"Coincidence," O'Connor objected.

Urdli smiled sourly. He knew better. "Can you be sure, O'Connor? Rachnei works subtly, sending out strands, then manipulating them carefully until the target is ensnared in a web from which there is no escape. Verner may be trapped already. Perhaps he started out innocently enough, but over time fell under the influence Rachnei has projected through the stone. Verner may not even be aware that he is carrying the stone to Rachnei's agents. It is more imperative than ever that we prevent the stone from falling into Rachnei's grasp. I had thought that Verner yielding his stolen treasure to Rachnei would represent only the loss of a weapon, but I begin to see that we stand to lose far more. ' 'Verner must be stopped.''

Sam was exhausted, but he was getting used to that. For days he had been running on short sleep. Chasing leads and meeting with locals, both shadowfolk and legitimate citizens, kept him up all hours of the day and night. When he could sleep he got little rest, always troubled by dreams, vague fantasies of pursuit where he shifted roles from the hunter to the hunted. In those nocturnal excursions he was running, always running. Not the pleasing freedom of the chase, however, but the desperate, panting flight of knowing someone or something powerful is just behind one's tail. So far, he had not glimpsed his nightmarish pursuer.

The emotions from the dreams had leaked over into his waking life, leaving him nervous and warily watching over his shoulder. At these moments he thought he might expose whoever was following him, and had begun trying sudden spins and fast doubling-back around corners. So far he had yet to observe any clearly malevolent trackers, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching.

He surveyed the street he intended to cross. There was no rush; the runner he was to meet was not scheduled to arrive for another half-hour. Plenty of time to check out the site. Here in this maze of tenements, the crowd was a mix of working types, homebodies, and the SINless. Ordinary people. Only a few looked out of place. Sam spotted a pair of Indian salarymen did they call them that here? passing through on business, and then a block down, he saw a pack of teenage corporates hanging out in their pseudo-tough leathers, studs, and chrome. No doubt they were sprawling for the thrill of it. They were faint shadows of the predators who would appear once the kids had gone home. ft was too early in the evening for the night life to come crawling out, though the signs of their presence were clear in the burn marks and bullet holes that scarred the buildings.

The predators might not be out, but the scavengers were getting an early start. An old man was moving along the opposite sidewalk, poking through the trash and debris that passing traffic had swept against the building walls. The man's bent frame was covered in a battered U.S. army field jacket whose usual markings had been replaced with crude patches bearing colorful symbols. Once the scrounger looked Sam's way, letting Sam see the hawk nose and pointed chin that dominated the man's craggy, lined face beneath the bartered, broad-brimmed reservation hat. Sam was startled to see that the junk-picker was an Indian, but then he told himself that even Indian society must have its failures.

Then he realized that his reaction was not for the fact that the old man was an Indian, but because he looked familiar. Sam crossed the street and walked past him, trying to get another surreptitious look at the old face, but the scavenger was too busy bending over a particularly noisome pile of trash.

Sam reviewed his glimpse of the man's features. Where had he seen that face before? He watched the bum sidle toward him, then on down the street. As the old man passed, he gave no sign of attention or intent. It struck Sam that the scavenger's features resembled those of his temporary landlord, which was possible. The coat gave the shambling junk-picker an almost unrecognizable shape, and the shuffling walk would disguise a person's normal gait. His old coot of a landlord had a shifty gaze, and seemed to be paying an unreasonable amount of attention to Sam's comings and goings. A cheap disguise might suit such an amateur spy.

But if a spy, for whom? His nightmares? Sam began to fear that paranoia was overtaking him. His landlord might be watching him, but the man didn't have the initiative to follow a tenant. He would sell any information he could, but he wouldn't bestir himself to seek it out. And the scavenger was just an old bum, maybe even a survivor of the reeducation camps. If so, he deserved Sam's sympathy and pity more than his suspicion. Still, Sam was glad he was carrying all his important goods with him. One couldn't be too careful in a strange city. The landlord might not follow tenants to spy on them, but Sam didn't think him above entering an apartment and helping himself to anything lying around loose.

Sam shook his head sadly. Such suspicion of people who had done nothing to deserve it wasn't like him, or so he had once thought. How much he had changed since leaving Renraku. Some of the differences were good. He felt stronger and more capable than ever before and was in better shape, too. But he had grown cynical and continued to do things he would never even have contemplated as little as two years ago. Here he was, a shadowrunning shaman searching for thd Ghost Dance Prophet. He wondered what his father would, have thought of that. He knew what his mother would have thought. She'd have been horrified. Sometimes Sam thought that was the proper reaction.