27

The Elf looked completely out of place standing within the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. His suit was strictly plex wear and his shoes were beyond salvation after their meeting with the local mud. His accent was pure Metroplex and his hands were soft, unmarked by any dirty work.

“I am only the messenger,” he said in a cool and distant voice.

Hart bit back a retort. What was the point? Her earlier outburst hadn’t affected him. He was slick, riding the smooth edge. She should have been equally so, but she hated it when a job went sour. This one had bad enough problems. She lifted the gun from the table and holstered it.

It should have come as no surprise that the touted Tir border patrol had mulled it even worse than she had thought. That they should miss her was understandable. That had happened often enough. But to miss that corporate pigeon made them look like noids. It was a fluke, a bad toss of the dice. Pure good luck for that suit Verner and bad for her.

The messenger was still there. “Get out of here,” she snapped, stilL caught up in her annoyance.

“Do you wish to make a response?”

“To your nameless principal? Get serious.”

“He has the continued health of your reputation at heart.”

“But won’t let himself be named? I’m touched.”

“His name would be quite familiar, I assure you. It would only be unwise for you to know it at this time. I was told to say that you would find his favor most useful in the future. His good will is easy to earn. All he asks in return for the information I have brought is a general outline of your plans.”

“Smoke and mirrors.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell him that. Smoke and mirrors.”

The messenger drew himself erect with indignation. “Very well.” He turned and strode from the cabin, his expensive leather loafers squishing slightly with each step.

Got through the shine at last. A petty victory but better than nothing. Let the Elf take her answer back to his Mr. Mystery. Two could play at the confusion game.

Whoever sent the messenger could have any of a dozen reasons for passing the information to her. Mr. Mystery could be playing on just about any side in the conflict. Or he could be someone not directly involved but using the opportunity to turn things against a rival or to twist them in favor of a friend. Without more information, she could not tell. Whatever someone’s reason for giving her the information, now that she had it there was no time to look into the source; The only source she could rule out was the ornery old worm that was her own contractor. Had he known of Verner’s survival, he would have sent an army of goons to convey the message that she had failed in her contract.

Tessien needed to know; it had the same contract. Hart shrugged on a jacket against the cool night air. She didn’t bother to lock the cabin; there was nothing to steal and no one here to steal it. She took the trail further up the mountain to the dry cave where Tessien lay coiled and dozing. The feathered serpent awoke as she entered its lair.

“Bad news, Tessien.”

“Anything that disturbs my rest is bad.” Annoyance washed through the cave.

“Well, rest time is over.”

She felt the serpent’s curiosity even though it said nothing.

“Verner, that suit we pulled out of Renraku as cover for the doppelganger plant, is still alive. The Tir border guards didn’t get him, and he’s popped up in San Francisco in the company of a runner called Dodger. This runner is some kind of wiz decker and the two of them are snooping around the Matrix. Sounds like their search is still mostly random, but they’ve got our names and will follow that up sooner or later.

“They’ve got Drake’s name, too.”

“Does he know the suit is alive?”

“Don’t think so.”

“We must take care of this quickly.”

“My sentiments exactly. I hate fragging loose ends.”

The serpent growled its agreement.

28

Sam woke to the smell of soy sauce and hot broth. He opened his eyes and turned his head. The source of the odor stood on the rickety table by the window. Dodger must have been down to the noodle shop on the corner, because two foam containers sat steaming, while a third empty one rolled back and forth in the fitful breeze from the open window. Sam was hallway through what remained of the soba when Dodger returned from a trip to the only functioning john in the semi-abandoned tenement where they had set up shop.

“Ah, Sir Twist, you are awake.”

With a mouthful of noodles, Sam mumbled a garbled reply.

“No need to offer such effusive thanks for the food. Think nothing of the expense or time involved, for are we not in this run together?”

Having swallowed the last recalcitrant noodle, Sam was free to reply. “It was your turn to get the food, anyway.”

Dodger’s wounded look was pure mockery, but the Elf’s light mood didn’t quite mesh with a sudden seriousness that Sam felt. Maybe it was the mention of expenses.

“Dodger, I’m grateful that your friend the professor arranged to get us here, but won’t he expect some kind of repayment.”

The Elf shrugged. “The passage was no strain on his resources. Mayhaps in the fullness of time, he will command a reckoning, mayhaps he won’t. I would find it no surprise were he to rely on your own conscience to weigh the balance of benefits and services, and to repay his efforts as you see fit. He is quirky that way.”

That didn’t make Sam feel any better. “My conscience is weighing a little too heavily lately. I wish you hadn’t stolen that money.”

“Operating capital, Sir Twist. Can’t run without it. The funds were ill-gotten gains anyway, lost long ago to their true owners. We merely prevented some unscrupulous corporate defilers of the landscape from the profit of their crimes.”

“It’s still theft.”

“Liberation”

“Semantics”

“Necessity,” Dodger laughed.

Sam found himself grinning along. The Elf’s mood had finally infected him, despite his misgivings about their actions. They had arrived in San Francisco with only a hundred nuyen on Dodger’s credstick, ten more in corporate scrip, and another fifty in UCAS currency. The last was mostly paper and next to worthless in the Free State of California.

They had to live while they sought justice. Was it not also justice for them to subsist off criminals?