"Drek-eating fragging son of a slitch," the Amerindian grated. "Two in one day." He turned tired, pain-dulled eyes on Falcon. "Your offer of help still good?" he asked. "Know anything about first aid?"

Falcon looked askance at the make-do field dressing he'd bound around the Amerindian's arm. He'd torn the cloth from his own shirt, and the gray fabric was already staining dark. At least he'd slowed the bleeding, of that much he was sure. Otherwise the man would already be dead.

He walked slowly beside the Amerindian, ready to offer a shoulder if needed. But his companion seemed able to walk on his own, albeit slowly. Again, Falcon was amazed at how much punishment the big man could absorb. He'd sat still while Falcon bound his new wound, but as soon as the job was done he went right back to business-scooping up the troll's pistol and checking its action, then stashing it and his knife in his jumpsuit. When he got up to get moving again, Falcon had insisted on coming along. The Amerindian had protested, but not too hard. Since then, they'd walked maybe fifteen blocks, all through back alleys, heading into the heart of downtown.

"My name's Dennis Falk," the youth said to fill the silence. "My chummers call me Falcon."

The Amerindian glanced down at him, was silent for a moment. Then he said, "John Walks-by-Night. They call me Nightwalker."

Falcon considered shaking hands, but Nightwalker didn't make any move to offer his. "What tribe?" he asked.

"Tribe? No tribe."

Falcon looked up at him in surprise, briefly studying the big man's strong profile, his complexion, his hair.

Nightwalker didn't look at him, but spoke as though he could read the young ganger's mind. "Yes, I'm Amerindian. But I'm not tribal." Still without looking down, he smiled. "What tribe are you?"

"Sioux," Falcon answered, then corrected himself in a quieter voice. "My mother was Sioux."

"Matrilineal descent's okay with most tribes," Nightwalker said. "So Falcon's your tribal name? Given to you by the chiefs?"

"No," Falcon said slowly.

"Have you been officially recognized by a Sioux chief, by any Sioux band?"

"No."

"So, officially speaking, you have no tribe," Nightwalker said. "Like me. Right?"

Falcon was silent for a few long moments. "Yes," he said grudgingly. Then he added fiercely, "But I will have."

"No Sioux chiefs in Seattle, chummer."

"I'm going to the Sioux Nation."

Nightwalker looked down at that, quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? When?"

Falcon clenched his teeth, swore to himself. "When I'm ready," he growled.

"Oh?" repeated Nightwalker. "Something holding you back? Family, maybe? Your gang?"

Falcon wanted to tell the Amerindian to just frag off, but he couldn't do it. There was something compelling about the big man, some strange kind of charisma that captured his imagination. "Vision quest," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Vision quest!" Falcon almost yelled. He glared up into Nightwalker's face, daring the man to make fun of him.

But Nightwalker just regarded him placidly. An eyebrow quirked again. "Tell me about a vision quest," he said quietly.

Falcon snorted. You know what I'm talking about, he thought, but didn't say it. Instead, he explained what he'd learned from Langland's book.

When he was finished, Nightwalker seemed to consider his words before speaking. "So when the spirits call you, you'll go?" he said at last. "Then and only then?"

He shook his head.

"I don't think I believe that."

He quickly raised a hand to still Falcon's incipient objection. "I'm not calling you a liar," he explained. "I just don't buy the philosophy. Your destiny's your own, that's what I think, your life's your own responsibility. And the way I see it, a man's a fool if he gives up that responsibility to anyone, even the spirits."

He shook his head again.

"But h.e.l.l," he went on with a sudden grin, "I don't drek on anyone else's religion or philosophy. It isn't healthy, and who knows? They may be right. More power to you. Falcon, and I hope you hear the totems' song."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Falcon watching the big Amerindian obliquely. Even though the other man didn't complain, he saw that Nightwalker was in serious pain. And, worse, he was obviously weakened by the blood loss from his two bullet wounds. His face was pale, his skin stretched-looking. His eyes were sunken and glittered with fever. Though he maintained the same pace, his gait had changed from a walk to a kind of shamble. Falcon could tell that it was becoming harder and harder for the man to keep his body under control.

"Where are we going?" he asked eventually.

Nightwalker didn't answer immediately. Then he shook his head slightly, like someone fighting his way back from the verge of sleep. He turned a haggard smile on Falcon. "We?" he asked. "I'm going for a meet with my comrades. You're going back to wherever it is you came from."

Falcon shook his head firmly. "You need me," he said.

Nightwalker laughed at that. "Don't flatter yourself. So you're fast with a knife and competent with a field dressing. That doesn't mean you can play in the same league as us. Maybe in ten years, but not now."

"You're shadowrunners."

The big Amerindian glanced down at him again, this time appraisingly. After a moment, Falcon could see him make a decision. "Yes," Nightwalker said.

"What happened?"

Nightwalker thought about it, then shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter if I tell you," he said finally. "It's not like there's much to tell. A run went bad. We were waiting for one of our team to finish her part of the job, but"-he shrugged again-"she never came back, let's put it that way. And then the other team hit us." He grunted. "Another shadow team. The corp we were hitting on had hired shadowrunners of their own to protect them. We never expected it, but it makes sense. Set a thief to catch a thief." His voice trailed off, his face went blank, slack. For a moment he looked like a sleepwalker, his body continuing the motions of walking although his consciousness had faded.

"So what happened?" Falcon prompted. Nightwalker's head jerked like someone being awakened suddenly. "I'm drifting," he said quietly. "Blood loss, wound shock. Maybe you should keep me talking."

"So what happened?" Falcon asked again.

"They hit us hard," Nightwalker told him, his voice emotionless. "There was me and . . . and my friend, plus the rest of my team from Seattle. And then six more from out of the sprawl." He glanced at Falcon, lips twisted in a grim smile. "Real tribal types, you'd probably have lots to talk about." Then the smile faded. "It was their run. They brought me on board as tactician and because I know the sprawl. The tribals were good, but only in small-unit actions. They needed me to coordinate the multiple teams. Marci-my friend-and the rest of my team were just guns in case things went bad." His eyes were slightly glazed, his gaze distant. Falcon knew he was replaying events like a trideo show against the screen of his mind.

"They took Marci out," the big Amerindian went on quietly. "One slug: in through her upper lip, blew out the whole back of her head. A bunch of the others bought it too, I think." He shook his head. "Or maybe not, maybe they were just wounded. Anyway, we were split up and had to bug out or they'd have geeked us all."

"That's when you were hit?"

Nightwalker nodded slowly. "I guess so. I didn't feel it when it happened. Sometimes you don't. It was later I felt my ribs were numb." He glanced down at Falcon."That's what a bullet wound often feels like: numb and dead. It only starts hurting later."

"So what do you do now?"

"Contingency plans," Nightwalker said slowly. "We got back-up meeting places, times, procedures. We regroup, see if there's anything we can do to pull the run out of the fire."

"That's where you're going now," Falcon stated. "Uh-huh," Nightwalker answered dully.

Suddenly concerned, Falcon looked up at his companion. The big shadowrunner's voice had been sounding more and more listless, the pitch lower and the words less clearly enunciated. "You okay?" he asked sharply.

Nightwalker didn't answer immediately. Then all he said was, "Huh?"

Falcon stopped, felt his worry escalate as the Amerindian took another couple of steps before noticing and stopping too. "You okay?" he asked again.

Again a pause before Nightwalker answered. "No," he said slowly. He shook his head, as if to clear it. "No," he said again, his voice more definite now. "Frag, I'm fading."

"How far's the meet?"

"Denny Park. How far's that?"

Falcon looked around. They were near Sixth and Pine. "About a klick, maybe more," he guessed.

"Frag!" Nightwalker hacked a cough and spat on the ground. Falcon saw that the dribble of saliva on the Amerindian's lips was dark with blood. The big man leaned back against a wall, closed his eyes for a moment, his face haggard with exhaustion and pain. When he opened his eyes again they were feverishly bright, fixed on Falcon's face. "You said 'we' a while ago," he began quietly. "We. You still want to help me?"

Falcon hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yeah." He tried to keep his voice cool, conceal the excitement he felt. "Yeah, I want to help. What do you need?"

The shadowrunner shot him a smile, tired but knowing. "Get me to the meet," he said. "I'll make it, but I won't have much left, you know what I mean? I want you to cover me. Watch my back, watch out for my interests. You understand?"

"You don't trust your partners?"

Nightwalker's chuckle became a painful, wracking cough. He spat again, wiped a dribble of b.l.o.o.d.y saliva from his chin. "Trust isn't a common thing in the shadows, chummer. We've got to get you a gun."

Falcon weighed the pistol in his hand. It was heavier than he'd expected, and it felt cold and lethal. A Fichetti Security 500, the ork gunlegger had called it. A light pistol, chambered for fairly light ammo, just one step up from a hold-out. But in his relatively small hand it felt bulky.

He'd never bought a gun before. Truth to tell, he'd never used one or even held one. Not a real pistol. Like most of the First Nation gangers, he'd bought himself a "Sat.u.r.day night special"-a jury-rigged, single-shot zip gun, picked up for about twenty nuyen from a bartender in a dockside tavern. But-again like most of his First Nation colleagues-he'd never used the weapon, never intended to use it. Owning a zip gun, carrying it in his waistband, wasn't much more than macho posturing. He knew that a few of the gang leaders had real guns; one had even put a slug into the leg of a rival ganger. For most of the others, a gun was more a prop, like a jacket with the gang colors, not a tool to be used.

The gunlegger had only smiled when Falcon asked for a pistol. But he'd stopped laughing quickly enough when the youth pulled out the certified credstick Nightwalker had given him. He took Falcon's hand, examined the size of his palm, then pulled out the Lightfire. "Not much gun," the ork grunted, "but this should do you well." The gun had cost 425 nuyen, which Falcon had paid without trying to bargain the gunlegger down. No time. He knew for sure he'd over-paid when the ork threw in an extra ammo clip as part of the deal.

Now he held the gun out toward Nightwalker.

The Amerindian looked like drek, his complexion sallow, eyes red and sunken, forehead p.r.i.c.ked with beads of sweat. He was sitting on the roadway, back against the wall of a building, looking for all the world like a halfdead rubby. This was exactly where Falcon had left him before heading for the gunlegger's doss, and it didn't look like the runner had moved a hair in the meantime.

"So you got yourself a toy, huh?" Nightwalker's smile and voice were both dull, exhausted.

"I got you something, too," Falcon told him. "Here." He tossed a small package into Nightwalker's lap.

With clumsy fingers, the Amerindian opened the package, pulled out a small circular patch sealed in a plastic pouch. He shook out the other contents of the packet onto his palm: three small octagonal pills, a bright warning red in color. He looked up at Falcon. "Stimpatch?" he asked.

Falcon nodded. "And those are metas. Metam . . . something."

"Metamphetamines," Nightwalker finished. "The runner's friend."

"The gunlegger said they'd pick you up."

"Pick me up?" Nightwalker grunted with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Yeah, pick me up, take away the pain, make me invulnerable ... or at least make me think I'm invulnerable. And then when they wear off, I crash, and I crash hard."

Falcon glanced away. "I thought they'd help."

"They will help," Nightwalker confirmed. "You did good. If I take them, I'll hate life tomorrow." He laughed. "But if I don't take them, I won't see tomorrow." He grinned. "I guess you didn't bring a gla.s.s of water too, huh?"

Nightwalker still looked like drek, Falcon thought, but at least he didn't look like he was going to croak any moment. Falcon had applied the stimpatch to the ugly puncture wound in the Amerindian's ribs, a wound that looked even worse than Falcon expected. And then Nightwalker had swallowed the metas, coughing painfully as the dry pills caught in his throat.

Fascinated, Falcon watched for a reaction. If the metas were as powerful as Nightwalker said ... He didn't have to wait long. Like a spreading flush, the blood returned to the Amerindian's face. His eyes, formerly glazed, cleared visibly. With a grunt of pain, he forced himself to his feet. He still looks like drek, Falcon thought, but at least he doesn't look dead.

Carefully, Nightwalker stretched, testing the mobility of his body. He twisted at the waist, hissed with pain as the movement stretched the wound in his side.

"How're you doing?" Falcon asked.

"Good as can be expected," Nightwalker said, "which is pretty fragging lousy. What I really need's some magic. I don't suppose you're a shaman? Didn't think so." Slowly he did a deep knee bend. "Okay, I can move. Not fast, but I'll make it." He grinned at Falcon, slapped the ganger on the shoulder. "You want to lead?"

5.

2343 hours, November 12, 2053 What is it about elevators and public stairwells that makes men want to void their bladders? Sly wondered, smelling the miasmic air. (And women too, she thought, remembering the wasted-looking bag lady she'd once seen squatting down on the open platform of the Westlake Center monorail station.) In cynical moments she wondered whether it was the same instinct that made wolves and dogs mark out their territory. In her mind's eye Sly could see a go-gang filling their bellies with water before the nightly cruise of their territory. She chuckled quietly, then forced the vagrant thoughts from her mind. Time to concentrate on biz.

She was near the northern end of Alaskan Way, down by Pier 70, across the road from the newly renovated Edgewater Inn. A strange part of town, paradoxical, almost schizoid, she thought. On the west side of the road were flashy hotels like the Edgewater, expensive restaurants catering to rich visitors, tourist-trap stores selling Seattle souvenirs and "genuine Amerindian artwork" produced on computer-controlled lathes and extrusion machines. Bright lights everywhere, high-tone cars being tended by chromed-up valets who doubled as sec-guards. And on the east side of the road . . .

Deepest, darkest sc.u.m-land. Rusting railroad tracks, deserted warehouses. Burned out or stripped hulks of cars. Reeking dumpsters. And rats, both the four-legged and two-legged varieties. It made for a weird ambiance, the juxtaposition of tourist-land and the urban realities of all too much of the sprawl.

Sly leaned against a ferroconcrete wall, in the shadows of a warehouse doorway. Disused, derelict, the place was boarded up, probably condemned for demolition when the city engineers got around to it. The doorway where Sly sheltered had once been sealed up too, but someone had torn off the plastisheet, probably an enterprising squatter who'd used it to construct some stinking hovel in the squat-city that had sprung up at the south end of the docks. The walls were liberally spray-painted with graffiti, and on the door behind her was the spray-painted notice-"Do not enter or you'll die." The trash and empty drug ampoules strewn all around said that not too many people took the warning seriously.

Sly checked her watch-twenty-three forty-three. She'd been here an hour, and the air was chill with gray drizzle. She shivered. How much longer?

As soon as the ruckus at The Armadillo had settled down, she'd slipped out the back way and started to track Modal. Not too tough a job for somebody with her range of contacts. Just spread the word, hand out her cel phone number (the number her phone was currently jury-rigged to accept, to be precise), and wait for some response. Questioning a couple of squatters just outside Smeland's establishment, she'd learned that "the black elf with the big fragging gun" had taken off on a big black BMW Blitzen bike. The same make and model Modal had ridden during the time he and Sly were trying to rekindle their affair. He'd always been a man of habit-a real risk in the biz-and she'd often ragged him about it. Now, of course, she was glad he was a man of unchanging patterns; it made her job so much easier.

She hadn't expected instant response. Usually it took hours or days for her information network to pull in pay-data. Tonight she'd lucked out. The first call had come in after less than an hour, followed immediately by independent confirmation. Someone had spotted Modal jandering into Kamikaze Sushi at the old Washington State Ferries pier-Pier 68, was it?

Sly knew Kamikaze Sushi, had been there a few times herself. It was another of the contradictory aspects of the north pier area, seemingly out of place on the west side of Alaskan Way. A small and rowdy restaurant, it was known for its all-night parties (in blatant defiance of licensing laws) and for the fact that it featured cla.s.sic rock music at brain-numbing volume. Old stuff-the Rolling Stones, the Doors, Genesis, Yes-bands that had kicked off half a fragging century ago. The owner of Kamikaze Sushi was a big j.a.panese guy who called himself Tiger, and when it was him working behind the sushi bar, he was the restaurant's biggest draw. Cybered reflexes made Tiger the fastest sushi chef in the plex, but his habit of matching customers drink for drink-even trolls who outma.s.sed him by fifty kilos-tended to take the edge off his skill. Thanks to "minor accidents" while under the influence, four fingers on his left hand and two on his right were cyber. (One recurring rumor claimed that the day he lopped off his left pinky he'd served it to an inebriated customer on rice with a dab of wasabe . . . and said customer promptly ate it.) But none of that seemed to slow Tiger down.

It had taken Sly about half an hour to get from Puyallup to the piers, worrying that Modal would have moved on by the time she made it. But no, when she took up her position across the road from Kamikaze Sushi, his big Blitzen was still parked out front. For the past hour she'd been cooling her heels in the doorway, waiting for the elf to reappear. Listening to the music, which she could hear clearly even at this distance, she fantasized about warming herself with a thimble-cup of hot sake. Impossible, of course. The whole purpose of this exercise was to cut Modal out of the pack, drag him off somewhere quiet, and ask him some probing questions. (She suddenly shivered again, but this time not with cold. An image of little Louis flashed through her mind, Louis screaming his way through an interrogation. With an effort, she pushed the picture back into the furthest recesses of her brain.) This whole thing really had her going. She needed to know what Modal was up to, had to know what he knew about Yamatetsu and the hit on her Mr. Johnson, had to know why he was trying to find her. If he was working for the other side-a.s.suming she wasn't just being paranoid-things could get dicey. Modal was quick and dangerous; she'd seen ample evidence of that a few hours ago. She was fairly confident that with the element of surprise on her side she could take him out quick and clean. But that wasn't what she wanted. She needed him alive, unhurt and able to answer questions. And if it turned out he didn't have some nefarious purpose for trying to find her, she had to avoid hurting his pride or enraging him so much he wouldn't reveal what she needed to know. She sighed. n.o.body said this would be easy. She checked her watch again. Come on, Modal. Hurry up . . .

As though the thought had been a charm to summon him, the familiar figure of Modal in his blue leathers suddenly appeared in the restaurant doorway. He paused briefly, apparently letting the cool night air clear the fog of sake fumes and smoke from his head. Then the elf jandered over to his bike, swung one long leg over, and settled into the saddle.

Sly held her breath. The next moments would make all the difference. The elf had held tenaciously to one pattern-the big bike he used to love so much. Would he hold to another as well?

Yes! Instead of simply firing up the bike and taking off, he reached deep into a pocket, searching for something. Sly knew what it was, the small computer module that controlled all the sophisticated functions of the Blitzen. Preferring not to depend on alarms and other theft-deterrent devices to protect his bike. Modal had modified the control panel so that the computer module fitted into a shuttle-mount, just like those used for car stereos. Whenever he parked the bike, he removed the module and slipped it into a pocket. Without it, the bike was inert, dead. A thief couldn't even start up the ignition, let alone control the ma.s.s of metal whose stability relied so much on the computer-controlled gyroscope mounted below the engine block. Unmounting and remounting the computer module took several seconds- seconds that could mean the difference between life and death in a sc.r.a.pe-but Modal had decided the risk was worth safeguarding his beloved bike.