Shadowrun: Shadowplay Part 23

When he was finished, Mary shook her head. "No bells," she said. "But you could have been describing any number of players in Sioux."

Falcon nodded, finished off his beer. "Yeah. Well, thanks, Mary. I owe you one." He started to get off the bar stool.

"Hold it." She grabbed his forearm in a surprisingly strong grip. "I've answered your questions; maybe I've got some of my own."

He resettled himself on the stool. "Shoot."

"What totem do you follow?"

He grimaced. "None." Then added fiercely, "Yet." Mary looked perplexed. "No? But ..." Her voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"But I felt ..." She paused, apparently trying to order her thoughts. "I felt the power of the spirits."

"Huh? When?"

"When I cast the illusion of you running from the OMI guards. I felt the power in you, I felt you sense my song."

He stared at her. He remembered his reaction at the sight of his magical double across the alley. He did sense something strange about it. It wasn't right, he recalled. I felt it. Is that what she's talking about?

"I felt . . . something," he said quietly.

"You sensed my song," she repeated firmly. "Only one who has heard the spirits could do that. But"-she looked puzzled again-"you say you don't follow the path of the totems."

"I tried," he told her, then quickly explained about the book by H. T. Langland, about his attempts to hear the call of the spirits. "I . . ." He hesitated, embarra.s.sed. "I was on a vision quest." He glared at her challengingly, daring her to laugh or contradict him.

But Mary Windsong didn't do either. She just scrutinized his face. "A vision quest," she said slowly. "Yes." She paused again. "Do you want to complete your vision quest, Falcon? I think I might be able to help you."

He didn't answer immediately, just stared at the young woman. Is she serious? he wondered. Or is she just stringing me along, taunting me because she does something I can't?

But Mary's face showed no hint of a mockery. She only sat there, calmly watching him, waiting for his answer. "How?" he asked huskily.

Mary shrugged-a little embarra.s.sed. Falcon thought. "There are ways to ... to aid a vision quest," she said. "Techniques some shamans have developed. You can help someone along, be their . . . their 'spirit guide,' I call it, but that's not quite right."

"How does it work?"

She met his gaze, and he felt a tingle run through his body-almost an electric shock. "I'll show you, if you like," she said quietly.

He hesitated. "Does that mean I have to follow your totem?"

Mary shook her head. "Not necessarily ... All the guide does is take you to the plane of the totems. Whatever happens after that"-she shrugged again -"that's up to you and the totems, not me."

"But how does it work?" he asked again.

She was silent for a moment, seeming to order her thoughts. "Sometimes the totems are speaking to you," she said slowly, "but your own mental walls keep you from hearing. A spirit guide can help break down those walls-help you hear the voice of the totems-if the voices are there to be heard."

"It's safe?" he asked.

She smiled grimly. "Safer than some other techniques people use," she answered.

"So it's safe," he pressed.

"I didn't say that," Mary corrected him. "The technique itself is safe. But sometimes people use it to hear the call of the totems when the totems aren't calling . . . if that makes any sense. Then there can be . . . problems. Do you want to try it? It's your decision. I can guide you, to the best of my abilities, but-"

"But if I'm wrong, if the totems aren't calling . . . what can it do to me?"

She looked at him steadily. "It can kill you," she said softly. "But I don't think that's a danger with you. I felt the Power in you, and I'm not usually wrong about these things."

Falcon stared at her. It sounded so enticing, so simple.

Should he try it?

Walking the path of the shaman-it was what he'd always dreamed about. And here was this girl-this shaman-offering him a chance to realize that dream. She said I sensed her song, he thought. Did I? I sensed something. Do I risk it?

And what about Sly? Could he really make the decision in isolation? He and Sly were chummers, comrades.

If he died, she'd be alone. (And I'd be dead! he reminded himself.) But what could he really do to help Sly anyway? She had to deck into Zurich-Orbital, and he couldn't follow her into the Matrix. She didn't need him to do what she had to do. If he failed-if he died-it wouldn't alfect her that much.

And if I succeed, I'll be a shaman, Falcon thought. And as a shaman, I could help Sly a lot more after she's made her Matrix run. Afterward, when things are winding down. I'd be able to help her more, wouldn't I?

And I'd be a shaman.

He glanced at his watch. Midnight, or close enough. What had Sly said? That she needed to get some utilities and some tech toys before making her run on Zurich-Orbital. That would take some time, wouldn't it? Time enough for me to do this. . . .

Turning to Mary, Falcon swallowed through a throat suddenly tight. "Let's do it," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Mary led Falcon into The Buffalo Jump's back room, an airless, windowless broom closet furnished in Early Squalor. Following Mary's instructions, the ganger settled himself on the floor, forcing his legs into an approximation of the full-lotus position. The young shaman crouched facing him, placed a small metal bowl between them. Wordlessly, she opened the beaded pouch on her belt, pulled out various kinds of leaves and what looked like dried herbs, all wrapped in small swatches of velvet. Some she tossed right into the bowl, others she crushed between her palms before adding them to the mix. Sharp odors stung Falcon's nose, caught in the back of his throat.

From the bag, Mary also extracted a small fetish with a feather tied to it by a slender leather thong. It was the skull of a tiny animal-a mouse probably, Falcon thought. She closed her eyes, pa.s.sed the fetish over the bowl. Then she set it down on the floor, opened her eyes again.

Mary looked searchingly into his face. "Are you ready?" Her voice was quiet, but intense enough to give him chills.

Falcon only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Close your eyes," she instructed. He did, a moment later feeling her palms cool against his cheeks. They smelled strongly of the herbs she'd crushed between them. "Breathe deeply," she said. Her palms were soft but firm, cool but alive with some kind of energy Falcon couldn't have named. The feel of her flesh against his was rea.s.suring, comforting.

Then the hands were gone. "Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them," Mary told him softly. He nodded, then heard a click, a quiet hiss. His nostrils filled with pungent smoke, probably from her burning the leaves and herbs.

"Breathe deeply."

He did so, drawing the warm smoke deep into his lungs. At first the membranes of his nose and throat burned and stung, but numbness quickly replaced the pain. The vapors seemed to fill his head; he could feel them billowing through his mind, mingling with his thoughts. Then Falcon felt as though he were pivoting slowly backward-just like being too drunk. He wanted to open his eyes, to stop the dizzying movement, but he kept them tightly shut.

"Breathe deeply," Mary repeated, her voice sounding so far away. "Breathe steadily."

He nodded. The sense of movement became more intense, yet less disorienting. He felt himself growing warmer, more comfortable and rea.s.sured, as if coc.o.o.ned and sheltered from anything that could harm him. He felt his lips curve in a smile.

There was a sound in his ears, a quiet, musical humming. It was Mary, he realized. His fingertips and his lips began to tingle. Mary's humming took on a faint ringing tone. Falcon took another deep breath. . . .

And the universe opened up around him. He heard himself gasp.

It was as if he could sense the infinity of creation all around him, with himself at the very center. A tiny, infinitesimally small point. Alone, vulnerable . . . inconsequential.

But then the universe turned inside out; he turned inside out. The infinity was still there, but now it was inside him. The universe was an infinitesimal point, within the infinity that was Dennis Falk. He gasped again in wonder.

"Don't worry." Mary's voice came to him softly. "I'll be with you. There's nothing to fear."

"What's happening?" he asked.

"You're walking the path of the totems," she said quietly. Her voice sounded even more distant, twisted and s.h.i.+fted out of all human timbre. Her last words seemed to echo around him, through him. "The totems, the totems, the totems, the totems ..."

In sudden alarm Falcon opened his eyes.

But it wasn't the grimy back room of the Buffalo Jump that he saw.

27.

0115 hours, November 16, 2053 So this was Reservoir Park. The cab driver had known right off when Sly told him her destination, so there was no risk she was in the wrong place.

The cab driver. At first it had irked her that Falcon hadn't come back with the Callaway. But then she realized that she hadn't given him any reason to think she'd be needing the car so soon. Besides, the Callaway was definitely an attention-grabber, definitely not appropriate for this meet. The cab had dropped her off on Deming Drive, half a klick from the park, and she'd walked the rest of the way.

Reservoir Park was a rolling expanse of gra.s.s several hundred meters across. A promontory projected out into the reservoir, which, presumably, provided drinking water for Cheyenne. A gentle breeze was blowing off the water, chill and refres.h.i.+ng. Sly imagined that the place was probably a riot of colors in spring and summer, with flowers spilling out of the many soil beds that surrounded the gra.s.sy area. At this time of year, however, the flower beds were empty, leaving only plots of bare soil.

Near the far end of the park, just south of the promontory, was a circular building maybe twenty meters in diameter. That had to be the Roundhouse Moonhawk had mentioned. Sly walked slowly toward it, loosening her heavy revolver in its holster.

Drawing closer, she could see that the Roundhouse didn't have any walls as such, just pillars, probably ferrocrete, supporting a conical roof. For a moment she was puzzled, then realized it must have been designed as a shelter for picnickers in the event of a sudden rainstorm. She smiled wryly to herself. Maybe she'd been in the shadows too long. Sly had almost forgotten that normal people did things like go on picnics.

The Roundhouse was an excellent site for a meet, she had to admit. There were no other buildings, no bushes or trees nearby, nothing to conceal anyone who might wish to sneak up on her and her contact. The fact that she could see clearly into the Roundhouse once she got closer also greatly lessened the odds of a setup.

Sly checked her watch. Still more than ten minutes to go until the time of the meet. Cautiously, she did a full circuit of the Roundhouse, keeping about fifty meters out from the building, scouting the terrain for cover that someone might use to creep up on the meeting. Nothing. n.o.body there and no way anyone could get within twenty meters without exposing himself. Satisfied, she crouched down near the bank of the reservoir and waited.

At exactly oh-one-thirty, a light came on inside the Roundhouse. Sly could see that it was from a camp-style battery lantern apparently resting on a table. In the yellow light, she also saw a small, slender figure standing in the center of the building. She waited a few minutes more, hoping to create some tension that would serve her interests in the negotiations. Only then did she slowly begin to move in.

The figure, presumably Hal, was turned north, away from the reservoir, in the direction of the main road leading here. Silent as a ghost, Sly approached from the opposite direction, from the reservoir side, able to observe her contact carefully as she did.

Hal appeared to be an elf, short for that metatype, but with the characteristic slender bone structure and slightly pointed ears. He wore blue jeans, a jean jacket, and motorcycle boots. His blond hair was short and subtly spiked on top, shoulder-length at the back. Slung over his shoulder on a padded strap was a metal case about the size of a briefcase. Sly smiled with approval. It looked like he'd brought her stuff.

She made it all the way to the edge of the Roundhouse's concrete floor before Hal heard the first sound of her approach. He spun around in surprise, but didn't reach for any concealed weapon. Sly stepped forward, holding her empty hands out from her body.

"I a.s.sume you're Hal," she said.

The elf gave her a grim, ironic smile. "And I know who you are, Sly," he said.

That voice, she'd heard it before. But where?

And then she remembered. On the Seattle docks, just before the sniper had opened fire. . . .

Setup!

Simultaneously with that horrible realization, the figure facing her s.h.i.+mmered like a mirage, changed. Grew taller and broader, its face twisting into more familiar lines. Even the clothing changed from casual denims to a semi-military uniform. She recognized the face grinning down at her. Knife-Edge, the leader of the Amerindian runners who'd tried to kill her at the Hyundai terminal.

Instinctively she threw herself aside, hand clawing for the big Warhawk. Too late, she knew, too slow. Knife-Edge was unarmed. But as the illusion magic ended and the runner was a.s.suming his true shape, her peripheral vision caught other figures flickering into view around her. Illusions and invisibility . . .

She hit the ground, rolled, bringing her gun up. Trying to bring it into line on Knife-Edge.

She saw one of the other figures, a skeletally thin Amerindian with feathers in his hair and a.s.sorted fetishes dangling from his belt, point his finger at her. She tried to roll aside, as if the finger were the barrel of a gun.

The thin man's lips moved.

Oblivion followed, hitting Sly like a missile.

Consciousness returned as suddenly as it had fled. No slow, drowsy transition, just a sharp demarcation separating nothingness from full awareness.

Sly kept her eyes closed, forced her body to remain perfectly still, not wanting anyone else to know she was awake. It gave her time to run a quick inventory of her physical sensations.

She was sitting upright in a padded, high-backed chair. Her hands were secured to the arms of the chair by tight bands around her wrists. Her ankles were tied together, and broad bands encircled her waist and chest, binding her body to the chair back. A padded headband was around her forehead, positioned just above her datajack, immobilizing her head. She didn't need to try to know she couldn't move a muscle.

A sickening rush of fear shot through her. This was exactly what they'd done to Agarwal. It took all the control she could muster not to buck and twist, fight against the bindings. She concentrated on her breathing, keeping it even, deep, and slow.

"Don't bother." The voice sounded close to her ear, making her jump. "We know you're awake."

For a moment she considered bluffing it out, but it was futile. Sly opened her eyes, looked around.

She was in a small, windowless room whose walls, floor, and ceiling were of bare concrete. Her chair, in the center of the room, was the only furniture. Three men stood around her. Two she recognized at once: Knife-Edge, still wearing his semi-military uniform, and the cadaverous, fetish-festooned shaman who'd put her out at the Roundhouse. The third figure was a small, weasely-looking woman who stood well away from the others, watching with a kind of emotionless curiosity that made Sly very uncomfortable. Knife-Edge and the shaman both had pistols holstered on their belts; the woman was apparently unarmed.

Knife-Edge jandered up to Sly, crouched down in front of her until his eyes were on a level with hers. She tried to kick him, but her ankles were secured to the chair as well as to each other.

"I'm glad we can finally have a quiet discussion," the Amerindian said calmly. "This time without the risk of interruption."

"You should have been standing twenty centimeters to the left," Sly growled.

Knife-Edge touched his left side, where the sniper's bullet had punched through his body. He smiled. "That might have made a difference to me," he admitted, "but not to you. Even with my spine shot in half, someone else would have eventually been having this discussion with you, you know." His cold smile faded. "Now, I think you should tell me where the data is. I know you don't have it on you." He reached into his pocket, pulled out the pa.s.scard for the motel room.

"Hotels never put their names on their pa.s.scards anymore," he went on conversationally. "Normally I think that's a good idea. It reduces thefts. But at the moment it's very irritating. My guess is that the datachip we're looking for is in this hotel room."

Sly smiled grimly. "Lots of hotels in Cheyenne, aren't there, drekhead?"

"Which is why you're going to tell us which one it is," he said quietly. "You're also going to tell us where you've hidden the chip and how to get around any security provisions you've set up."