The advantages were obvious: no travel time or cost and total physical security (because the partic.i.p.ants never had to leave their homes). Some technopsychologists were pointing at the phenomenon of virtual meetings as one of the most significant changes in human society since agriculture replaced early mankind's hunter-gatherer existence. These psychs believed that the Matrix would eventually sp.a.w.n "electronic tribes" and "virtual nations." Membership in a particular social group would no longer depend on physical location, but more on channels of communication. Just as "telecommuting" had changed the work place in the late nineteen-nineties because knowledge workers no longer had to live within commuting distance of-or even on the same continent as-their employer, so this would change other facets of societies (or so said the pundits). While most people in 2053 still thought of "groupness" and "nationhood" in a geographical, location-based sense, virtual meeting places were starting to break this concept down.

Even with the proliferation of virtual meeting places, Erehwon seemed to be unique. According to the buzz on the Shadowland bulletin boards, it was a virtual club. Deckers could project their icons into the network nodes that made up Erehwon and interact with anyone else who happened to be there. Biz went down, of course, but many deckers from around the world seemed to like just hanging there, conversing with other patrons and simply enjoying themselves.

The virtual club was crowded as Sly's icon entered the node. She remained motionless for a moment, absorbing the scene around her.

According to the sensorium being fed into her datajack, she was standing in a smoky, low-ceilinged tavern. The resolution was good enough that, for a moment, she could almost believe it was real. But then she looked closer at the crowd.

The patrons of Erehwon reminded her of a group of video-game characters who'd taken a night off and gone out for a beer. The decker icons that filled the place ranged from the innocuous to the threatening to the whimsical, and from the most mundane to the most outre and bizarre. A neon samurai rubbed shoulders with an anthropomorphic hedgehog, while a two-headed dog engaged an alabaster angel and a black gargoyle in conversation. Resolution varied from icon to icon. In some the individual pixels were large, creating a coa.r.s.e, "jaggy" appearance, and the animation was jerky and imprecise. In others, the rendering was so masterful that they resembled state-of-the-art cinematic computer animation, looking more real than reality itself. Making a quick tally in her mind, Sly estimated the current clientele at about thirty-five deckers.

To her right was a long oak bar, "the juice bar," one of the features that set Erehwon apart from other virtual locales. It was a Matrix construct, but it served a very real purpose. Deckers could send their icons up to the bar, where they could order "buzzers." In terms of icons, the drink icons appeared as beers, highb.a.l.l.s, or shooters. In actuality, however, they represented small and simple utility programs that produced slight and temporary biofeedback loops in the minds of the deckers partaking. These loops produced various psychological effects- generally a mild euphoria-that partially mimicked the effects of alcohol. Although Sly had no intention of experimenting with buzzers tonight, she had to admit the concept was attractive. One could get the pleasant buzz of drinking without any hangover, and theoretically, simply abort the utility at any time to be instantly "sober" again.

She started to circulate. Even though nothing here was "real," and individuals' icons could-if both wished it- pa.s.s through each other without interference, old habits died hard. She threaded her way through the crowd, careful not to b.u.mp anyone's elbow or tread on anyone's foot.

It took her a few subjective minutes to find the icon she was looking for. A bare-chested Amerindian warrior with the head of a pearl-white eagle, he was sitting at a small corner table. In front of him were three empty beer mugs, indicating that he'd been doing buzzers. He looked up as she approached.

"Moonhawk," she said.

The finely rendered icon blinked its eyes. "Do I know you?"

For a moment Sly wished she'd been able to visit Erehwon as her familiar quicksilver dragon icon. That icon had something of a rep, possibly even one that spread as far as Cheyenne. But of course she was limited to the icon in the MPCP of Smeland's deck-a rather uninspired female ninja.

"No," she answered coolly. "But there are people in Cheyenne who know you. They say you're good."

The eagle-headed warrior shrugged. "Good enough, maybe," he said laconically. "Who gave you my name?" Sly smiled, shook her head. "That's not the way they want to play it."

Moonhawk shrugged again. "So talk. What do you want?"

"Tools of the trade," she said. "Utilities. A couple of pieces of hardware."

"Why come to me?"

"Buzz says you're the man."

"Maybe." Moonhawk studied her briefly. "Hypothetically speaking," he said after a moment, "if maybe I was able to help you out, you've got the nuyen?"

Now we get down to it, Sly thought. "Hypothetically"-she stressed the word ironically-"I'd have the nuyen." She ran a quick display utility that produced a wallet fat with banknotes. She waved the wallet-construct under Moonhawk's nose, then made it vanish again.

"So, again hypothetically, what're you looking for?" the fixer asked. "What utilities? What hardware?"

"For utilities, I want it all," Sly said firmly. "The full suite: combat, defense, sensor, masking."

Moonhawk chuckled. "You ain't wanting much, are you? What're you doing, refitting a whole slotting deck?"

That's just what I'm doing, she thought, but only smiled.

"Any particular style?" the fixer queried. "You into music, colors, what?"

"Doesn't matter to me. You give them to me, I can use them. They've just got to be hot. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

Moonhawk snorted. "What hardware?"

"A phase loop recourser." When the fixer didn't respond immediately, she added, "A PLR."

The icon's piercing eyes widened in surprise. "A who!" Then he laughed. "Chummer, you're out of date. Way out of date. PLRs don't do squat against the ice they're writing now. Any black ice worth its name's gonna go through a PLR like it wasn't there." He laughed again, a harsh bark of cynical amus.e.m.e.nt.

Right then she was thankful that her icon wasn't well enough rendered to show her embarra.s.sment. "Then all I need is an off-line storage chip," she said, keeping her voice as level as possible. "Two hundred megapulses. And a microelectronics tool kit. And that's it."

"And that's it," he echoed. "Well, omae, it's your lucky day, considering we've just been talking hypothetically. I know a guy knows a guy who's got some utilities he'd be willing to part with."

"They've got to be hot."

"Nova hot," Moonhawk a.s.sured her. "It's all rating six and up"-he shot her a doubtful look-"if your deck can handle it. Cla.s.s act all the way, all from IC Crusher Systemware. You do know ICCS, don't you?"

She didn't. Even the software companies had changed since her day, but nodded knowingly. "He's got the hardware too?"

The fixer nodded. "You interested?"

"I'm interested," she confirmed.

"Okay then," Moonhawk said briskly, suddenly all business. "How soon you need them?"

Sly hesitated. The sooner I get the utilities, the sooner I don't have any more excuses. She forced the thought away. "Soonest," she said firmly. "Tonight."

The hawk-headed icon hesitated. "Rush might cost extra."

"Bulldrek," she told the fixer firmly. "If your friend of a friend's got the stuff like he says he does, he'll want to unload it as soon as possible so he can get his hands on the nuyen, right? And if he doesn't have the stuff on hand. I'm going to go deal with a serious fixer. Do we understand each other, Moonhawk?"

The fixer glared at her for a long moment, then his expression cleared. He chuckled. "Okay, okay, hang easy. It was worth a try, right? Give me a tick and I'll set up the meet."

The icon froze, like a single frame in a movie. Sly knew the fixer had suspended his Matrix connection while placing another call.

It didn't take long. "You've got a meet," Moonhawk announced. "At oh-one-thirty. That soon enough for you?"

Sly nodded. "Where?"

"Reservoir Park, at the Roundhouse. Head east out of town, you'll find it. The man's name is Hal." He hesitated. "You sure you got the nuyen for this? Your shopping list is going to cost you a hundred-K nuyen and up."

"I'm good for it, Moonhawk." She paused, drew her ninja icon's lips back from her teeth in what could- almost-be called a smile. "Your chummer better have the goods, slag. Or next time we meet it's going to be in the flesh.

"Get my drift?" she said before jacking out.

26.

2320 hours, November 15, 2053 Falcon could smell the troll's foul breath even over the reek of the dumpster as the sec-guard's ma.s.sive hand closed on the edge of the metal lid.

The young ganger ducked lower, heart pounding in his ears, stomach in knots. He thought wildly about firing a long burst from his pistol into the troll's face the moment he opened the dumpster, but then what? There would still be three more of them.

With a creak, the heavy lid began to rise.

"Hey, you slots! Over here!" The taunting voice echoed from the concrete walls of the surrounding buildings. A male voice, young and dripping with scorn.

One of the troll guards cursed, and the lid banged down again. The chunk of garbage that Falcon had used to wedge the lid open was still in place, so it didn't close all the way. Confused, he peered out through the narrow slit.

The trolls had turned away from the dumpster, were starting off in hot pursuit of a figure heading back the way Falcon had come. A familiar-looking figure with straight dark hair, leather jacket, and velcro-strapped runners. It could have been Falcon's identical twin.

But there was something strange about the figure. Not just his appearance. He just doesn't feel right, Falcon thought, then realized he was shivering, and not only from fear. Something crazy was going down here.

One of the trolls snapped off a couple of shots at the fleeing figure. From his angle of vision, Falcon thought the shots had gone true, but the figure showed no reaction. A mocking laugh rang out-not Falcon's voice. Then the trolls were out of sight, the crash of their boot heels on the concrete soon fading.

Just what the flying frag was going on here?

Falcon pushed the lid open. He climbed out cautiously, dropping silently to the ground where he crouched in the shadow of the dumpster.

"It's okay, they're gone."

He spun at the voice sounding beside him. Dragged the machine pistol from his pocket, brought it to bear.

The weapon's sighting laser painted the face of a woman standing near another dumpster. She hadn't been there a second ago, he told himself, I know it! She squinted her eyes against the glare of the laser, but made no other move.

She was Amerindian, with straight black hair gathered into a braid that hung halfway down her back. She wore what Falcon considered traditional Plains-tribe garb: a deerskin tunic over wrapped leggings and beaded moccasins on her feet. Feathers, beaded fetishes, and other talismans covered her clothing. Though she was small, almost tiny, something about her demeanor made Falcon feel more like she was looking down at him from some superior height. Frag that drek. I'm the one with the gun, he reminded himself.

He tried to guess her age, found it very difficult. Her hair was l.u.s.trous black without a trace of gray, her face unlined. And very attractive, he couldn't help but notice. Judging from those clues, he'd have guessed her to be about twenty. But again he came back to her manner, her obvious self-possession. Taking that into account blew his estimate out of the water. She could be any age at all.

Realizing that he still held his gun levelled between her eyes, he didn't lower the weapon, but backed off on the trigger so the sighting laser died. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Mary Windsong," the woman answered, her voice light, almost lilting. She dropped her gaze from his eyes to the weapon. "That isn't necessary, you know," she added. "I don't mean you any harm." Then she continued to merely watch him calmly.

Falcon felt his face begin to get hot. Was he blushing? He felt vaguely ludicrous, a big, tough shadowrunner pointing his heat at this unarmed, harmless-looking woman. "Sorry," he mumbled. He lowered the gun to waist-level, but didn't put it away. It stayed in his hand, the gun barrel not quite pointing at her.

"You know my name," the woman said pointedly. The ganger hesitated, then thought, What harm would it do? "Falcon," he said, then went silent before asking what he really wanted to know. "What the frag was that a minute ago? I saw ... I saw me running away."

Mary Windsong laughed, and Falcon was forced to knock a few years off his original age estimate. She's not much older than me, he realized.

"It was the best I could think up on short notice," she answered lightly. "I saw you duck into the trash, and I knew the OMI goons would look in there. So . . . just a simple illusion spell, but it did the trick."

"You're a shaman, then?"

She nodded. "I follow the path of the totems," she acknowledged.

"Which totem?"

"I sing the songs of Dog."

Falcon wanted to pursue that line of questioning further, but first he had to know some other things. "Why did you help me?" he asked. "What's in it for you?"

She shrugged. "Nothing, directly. But when I saw those OMI goons about to grab you"-she smiled broadly-"I figured, what the h.e.l.l, eh?"

"What's with OMI, anyway?" he wanted to know. "Who are they? What's their game?"

Mary chuckled again. "You want I should give you a political science lesson right here and now?" she asked. "The trolls will have lost the illusion by now; they might be back any time."

Falcon hesitated. His first impulse was to get the frag out of there, to save his own hoop and let Mary go about her business. But, he had to admit, the young shaman probably had information that would be useful to him and Sly. Like, what was the connection between Knife-Edge and this OMI thing?

"Is there somewhere we can go and talk?" he asked.

The tavern was called The Buffalo Jump. A small, smoky place, no tables, just a long bar, scarred and carved here and there with initials and bits of graffiti. There were only five patrons present, not counting Falcon and Mary. Amerindians all, and every one a tough-looking hombre, much more interested in their beers than the other patrons.

Mary led Falcon to two rickety stools at the far end of the bar, away from the front window with its flickering beer signs. The bartender, a mountain of muscle with a face that looked like a boiled red fist, apparently knew Mary. He greeted her with a warm smile-or his best approximation of same-and brought them each a halfliter of beer. He then lumbered down to the other end of the bar, and continued his task of using a gray rag to redistribute the grime on the counter top.

The shaman took a healthy pull on her beer. Then, "You want to know about the OMI, right?" she said. "How much do you know about Sioux politics?"

Falcon shook his head. "Not enough."

She chuckled. "You got that straight, particularly if you're on the bad side of the OMI.

"OMI's military intelligence," she went on. "They're supposed to work closely with the Sioux Special Forces- the Wildcats, you heard of them?"

Falcon nodded slowly. He'd heard stories about the Wildcats, the ultimate military hard cases, experts at black ops. A unit of heavily cybered warriors leavened with a platoon of shamanic commandos. "Real bad news, right?"

"Good understatement, chummer," she said. "OMI also works with the rest of the military doing threat estimates, intelligence on troop movement, other support functions like that. At least, that's what they're supposed to be doing.

"Couple of years back, OMI got a new director, a real hag from h.e.l.l called Sheila Wolffriend, who everybody just calls 'the Wolf.' Well, the Wolf started building OMI into her own private little empire. More a.s.sets, more resources. Looser ties with the Wildcats and less supervision by the Sioux Military Council. Instead of merely using them to get information and provide support for the other forces, she started running her own black ops from time to time. People kicked and screamed at first, particularly the Wildcats; they expected her to frag up big time, leaving them to clean up the drek afterward. But Wolf didn't just think she was good, she was good. All of her ops ran smooth as silk.

"The Wildcats approached the Military Council," Mary went on, "and tried to get OMI shut down. But the Council didn't go along. They backed the Wolf, and even cut back on the Wildcats' authority." Mary laughed softly. "A lot of people decided right then that the Wolf knew where some real important bodies were buried."

"Hey, wait a minute." Falcon held up a hand for silence. "How the frag do you know all this?"

"Where do you think OMI got its a.s.sets?" the shaman asked. "From the Wildcats? They'd like to see the Wolf burned at the stake. So where?"

Falcon thought for a moment, then smiled grimly. "From the shadows," he guessed.

"Right in one. She recruited some of Sioux's hottest runners. So of course some of the background leaked out into the 'shadow telegraph,' you know what I mean?" Falcon understood. The shadow telegraph was the underground grapevine that carried the buzz about almost everything that happened out of the light-if you knew how to tap into it. "So what happened then?"

Mary shrugged. "That's when the telegraph kind of dried up. The Wolf's got something pretty heavy going on. What some people are saying is that OMI wants to mount a big operation against the UCAS. Other people say they'll be going after Pueblo. Me, I don't know: either one sounds like pure suicide."

"Do you know any of the people the Wolf recruited?" Falcon asked.

"Some. Anybody in particular?"

As accurately as he could, Falcon described the runner who called himself Knife-Edge.