Robert Charette - Never deal with a Dragon

He turned to say something to Dodger and Ghost and found them paying attention to the person slumped face-down over the counter-himself. Seeing that, Sam knew that he had succeeded, more fully than ever before. This time he was aware of his presence in astral space as well as knowing that his own body lay quietly awaiting his return. It was a liberating, exhilarating, profoundly disturbing realization.

For the first time, he was viewing astrally a scene that was familiar. At least he thought it was. The world around him had gone strange; colors shifted buildings appeared washed out, and people glowed starkly against the urban background.

Near at hand, the fires that lit Dodger and Ghost burned brightly but were scored with dark areas, the street samurai’s more than Elf’s. The counterman’s aura was dull with a sickly green overlay that- smelled wasn’t the right word but it was appropriate-bad.

Sam walked over to the Dwarf who had taken their attention. Approaching him, he could see the glow that overlay the tatterdemalion image and knew, he didn’t know how, that the Dwarf was healthy. His aura didn’t have the “smell” of the noodle vendor and there was no taint to the color that would have been present if the Dwarf was the substance-abuser he pretended. Even more than Ghost, this person’s glow was blotched and crisscrossed with dark, dead places- the marks, Sam realized, of extensive cybernetic enhancements.

Sam’s approach was a test of sorts to see if he really was invisible to this watcher. He stepped directly into the false derelict’s line-of-sight, but there was no reaction. Satisfied, Sam turned and crossed the street.

It was a flickering whirl of glowing people and shadow machines, flittering flashes of light from unknown sources and the sudden, fleeting presence of motion at the corners of his perception. The rapidly mounting load of sensory input drove him faster across the roadway. He fled into the building, away from the bustle of life, feeling relieved to reach the untenanted vestibule. He took a moment to steady himself before proceeding.

Not knowing how to call an astral elevator, he took the stairs, stepping though the door that his hand could not touch. After a couple of flights, he realized he could not read the signs showing each floor’s number. He could see them and feel a sense of identity, but the words were gibberish. He should have counted landings. He began to stick his head through the doors at each landing, seeking the pattern of scars and debris that marked his own floor. It only took a couple of tries.

He walked slowly to his door. Not needing the key, he stepped through the panel. The apartment had been trashed. Anything breakable was broken, anything tearable torn, and anything openable opened. What little of value he had was gone or destroyed but of Sally there was no sign.

“She never arrived,” said a voice that he recognized.

Sam turned to face the speaker. “Dog, what are you doing here?”

“Talking to you.” Dog cocked his head and gave Sam a wide canine grin.

Sam didn’t find the flip answer amusing. “I know that. I mean, why are you here?”

“You have a lot to learn.”

Not again. Sam thought. Maybe he was crazy. Tired people could hallucinate, and bad food could make for bad dreams. Maybe he had come home from the run and collapsed to sleep away his exhaustion.

He crouched in front of Dog. “I’ll wake up soon. You’ll be gone and Sally will be here. This is just a paranoid nightmare.”

“Close to the mark, Man. It’s a dream, all right, but that doesn’t make it any less real. And paranoia is good, too. Downright healthy, sometimes. Maybe you’d like to learn a Song.”

“I’ve got to be dreaming.” Sam stood up. “There’s a killer on my doorstep and two more hunting me wherever I go, I’m a stalking horse for a Dragon, and my faithful astral companion wants to teach me a lullaby.”

“Well, a lullaby’s good, but not what you need right now. I was thinking of a more powerful song.”

With that, Dog began to sing, and the next thing Sam knew, Dodger was trying to force him to drink some bitter green tea. The stuff tasted awful but he drank it, thankful for anything that was real and substantial.

“What took you so long?” the Elf asked. “Sally doesn’t take that long to do an astral recon. We thought they might have gotten your spirit.”

“I had a conversation with…” Realizing how ridiculous it would sound. Sam stopped himself. “Never mind.”

Ghost leaned into his face. “What did you learn?”

Suppressing a hysterical giggle, Sam formulated the words the Indian wanted to hear. “Someone trashed the place, but Sally wasn’t there. And you’re probably right about the Dwarf. He’s hotwired and chromed to the max.”

“Time to relocate,” Ghost announced.

As far as they could tell, the Dwarf, intent on his surveillance, never noticed the noodle vendor’s three recent customers.

Relocation meant Ghost’s turf. It also meant a little food and several hours’ sleep for the exhausted runners. When Sam came to, he was ravenous. There was more food product and he wolfed down some of it to quiet his stomach. Both Dodger and Ghost had been busy while he had slept. They had contacted Sally, who assured them she was fine and that no one had bothered her. Ghost’s tribesman who had been watching the squat had vanished and was presumed dead. That was definitely Greerson’s style, according to the word on the street confirming the Dwarf’s presence in Seattle. The mix of reassuring and unsettling news was topped off by Dodger’s report about a benefit dinner at Club Voyeur.

“So you think that Drake might be at this dinner tonight?” Sam said thoughtfully.

“Verily. ’Tis the sort of affair that attracts his paramour Nadia Mirin, and she has responded positively to the invitation. Therefore, I conclude that he will attend as well. If so, we might be able to get close and plant some electronics on him. A tracer or a snitch, perhaps.”

“I don’t care about the electronics. I want to go there. I want to see him again for myself.”

“Charging in blindly wouldn’t be very bright,” Ghost said. “It’s a fool’s errand.”

“Especially at the Club,” Dodger said gravely. “The proprietor is notoriously unforgiving about violence in his restaurant. ’Tis no place to settle matters, save by negotiation. That is, unless one has sufficient wealth to pour soothing oil on troubled waters.”

“I don’t want to talk and we’re not ready to fight. All I want to do is look,” Sam assured them.

“I thought you wanted him to think you were dead?”

“He doesn’t need to see me.”

“Pray tell, Sir Twist, just what do you have in mind?”

“Look, we’re not going to be ready to take him on until we get more data. I think that I can get us some if I just get a look at him. When I use astral projection, I can see things about people.”

“What kind of things?” Ghost asked suspiciously.

Sam didn’t know how to explain it, not really understanding it himself. “Well, people have a kind of glow to them. It’s pretty distinctive, so I might be able to learn to recognize him astrally. That could help. You know, like if he’s in disguise or something. Then there’s cyberware; it mutes the glow, damps it down, sort of. I think I could tell how much he’s been modified. That would give us an idea of what we can expect from him.”

“Sounds good,” Dodger said.

“I thought you didn’t believe in this magic stuff,” Ghost said.

“Let’s just say I’m having second thoughts.” He gave them a weak smile, adding silently, or else going completely crazy.

Sam had picked a table where he would have a good view of the one reserved for Mirin and her guest. He didn’t worry about Drake spotting him because of the special virtue of Club Voyeur. Sam’s table was in the Lower Hall, separated from the Upper Hall by a wall of the finest one-way Transparex. At Club Voyeur, the wealthy and powerful dined undisturbed by the lower classes, while simultaneously being on display for the edification of those same folk. Sam thought that only vanity and arrogance would make someone voluntarily take part in an event in the Upper Hall. Club Voyeur was a bastion of class consciousness, from the magnificent platinum salt cellar in the shape of an ancient sailing ship that lay embedded in the Transparex to the waiters, whose haughtiness could only be softened by a sufficient bribe. The food, of course, was superb.