He got no answer. Then realized that was his answer. Leaning to look under his seat, he saw that his goods were gone. He straightened and settled back to wait.
Lofwyr had supplied the Edward Vinson identity. In giving it up, Sam was throwing away a potentially useful resource. The fictional Vinson had a townhouse in Seattle proper, a comfortable and nondemanding Matrix research slot with Aztechnology, and a System Identification Number that would have allowed Sam easy passage through most of the metroplex. Without that SIN, Sam was barred from some of the places where he hoped to hunt Drake. But with it, Lofwyr would likely be able to monitor everything Sam did within the public Matrix, tracking his use of facilities and observing any financial transactions Sam made using the identity. Until Vinson evaporated, he could open doors, but evaporation was a good possibility after Sam had used Lofwyr’s chip to access Genomics research files. He had done it even though sure the Dragon would object. To punish Sam, Lofwyr might make Edward Vinson vanish, leaving Sam high and dry at some Lone Star checkpoint or corporate security desk.
Trust and caution at war again.
The Dragon had helped Sam because he wanted something from Sam. And when Lofwyr had that, then what? A reward of money, safety, teaching, and assistance in finding his sister. Would the Dragon keep his word?
If Lofwyr were trustworthy, his offer would stand after Sam settled with Drake, whether or not he used the Vinson identity. If Lofwyr trusted him, no problem, If Lofwyr didn’t trust him, the Dragon might consider Sam’s sale of the identity a theft of property. Who could know what a Dragon might think?
Caution argued that he was better off making it harder for anyone, including Lofwyr, to track him. Caution suggested he was safer if his benefactors did not know his plans and actions. Caution warned him to trust no one but himself. That was why Sam had come to Cog. Caution’s voice was more insistent than trust’s.
Now waiting here in the quiet little room, he was having second thoughts. Lofwyr had done him no harm. Why was Sam so reluctant to trust the Dragon? Had his experiences with Tessien soured him against all of their breed? Or was he just reacting to the beast’s alien nature? Sam didn’t like to think he could surrender so easily to such prejudice.
He had been raised to believe that all sentient creatures had souls and that the soul was what separated them from animals. But in his interview with Lofwyr, Sam had sensed a cold ruthlessness as though humanity were his plaything. Did Dragons believe that only their kind had souls? Or did they even believe in souls at all?
His father had taught him to judge each person individually, but the elder Verner had never met a Dragon. The United Nations recognized at least three kinds of draco forms as intelligent beings and thereby entitled to full rights under international law, but that didn’t mean Dragons thought and acted like normal Humans. Who could ever know or understand them?
A slight hiss from the hidden speaker cut off his ruminations.
“My apologies for the delay, Twist.”
Sam mentally scrambled back into his street-wise attitude. “So I am who I say?”
“Let us say that I do not dispute your claim at this moment and that we may do business. Your offerings seem legitimate, though Mr. Vinson is a somewhat transparent construct.”
Whether or not Lofwyr were trustworthy, Sam doubted he would hand out inferior tools. “You know as well as I do that the I.D. is solid, Cog. But nothing lasts forever, right? You might want to move it along.”
“I see. That does reduce its value accordingly.”
“What’s your offer?”
There was a slight hesitation, as though Cog were put off by Sam’s abrupt descent to the bottom line. “Have a look under your chair.”
Sam’s questing hand found an envelope. Opening the rough plastic seal, he pulled out a resume for one Charley Mitchner, a disability pensioner. The other sheet of paper read “2,000, nuyen” in typescript. The resume looked good to Sam. Low-profile and totally unremarkable. A Mister Nobody was just what he needed, but the cash offer was too low. “You can do better, Cog. There was more cash on the credstick.”
“I have transaction expenses, Twist.”
“I have expenses, too, and I need equipment.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
In the end, Sam walked out of the pawn shop as Charley Mitchner, former packer for Natural Vat and regular relief claimant on SIN 555-405-6778-9024. A hand-held data reader and a bug scanner weighed down one pocket of his vest. In the other was a box of ammo for the Narcoject and a slip of paper with the address of his new residence, a squat in an old relocation development in western Bellevue near the Redmond Barrens, his pocket bulged with a wad of 3.330 nuyen. He dumped 50 of that on access to the public Matrix to leave a message for Dodger in the prearranged mailbox.
Dodger leaned on the fire escape railing and sighed. He didn’t need cybernetic ears or even his Elven hearing to catch the rhythmic sounds and breathy gasps coming from he squat through the open window. The two inside would know that he was waiting. Ghost Who Walks inside’s auditory enhancements would have picked up Dodger mounting the ladder. The Elf suspected that the Street samurai could also monitor the challenges of his tribe’s sentries at either end of the alley.
The alley was typical of the Redmond Barrens-a malodorous, clogged byway set in a neighborhood of moldering urban blight. The grimy brick wall of the neighboring tenement and the refuse-strewn concrete were hardly fit for contemplation. Dodger turned his attention to the mouth of the alley, where the flickering glare of a neon sign cast mad rainbows over the three guards.
Local residents must find the trio’s warpaint, feathers, and fringed synthleather garments a routine sight, for this turf belonged to the Full Moon Society. Like most of the gangs in the Barrens, they provided soldiers, protection, and what passed for law and order in this part of the corp-forsaken slum. Unlike other gangs and freelancers who affected indian fashions, the Society members actually had Indian blood. The Full Moon Society was the physical muscle of Ghost Who Walks inside’s urban tribe.
The tribe had no name as far as Dodger knew, its members a mixture of heritages, from Salish to Blackfoot to Navajo. Most were young runaways from tribal lands, lured by the big city and fast life of the Whites and Yellows. Some were plex-born and bred, their ancestors having long since abandoned the bucolic dreams of the tribals who ran the Council Lands. Only a few were old enough to remember the concentration camps of the century’s early decades; and these were the source for the handful of ancient customs the tribe followed.
Ghost’s people, like most tribals in North America, had lost much of their heritage. Under the guise of combatting a rebellious and dangerous terrorist element, the former U.S. government had tried to exterminate the Reds. It had condemned them to “re-education centers” intended to stamp out Indian culture and racial identity. The terror only ended when the leaders of tribal unification raised the rising tide of magic to smash the tyrant’s grip. The power of the Great Ghost Dance had won back liberty and land, as well as creating a new order in North America.