“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.

But the tribal peoples had suffered more than physically. Much knowledge once painstakingly gathered by anthropologists and preserved by tribal historians perished in the purges. They were forced to rebuild their heritage from the memories and tales of the old folks. The urban tribes were a legacy of the loss.

The city tribes were bound by skin color and outlook rather than the traditional affiliations, and dressed in a mixture of styles drawn from traditional garb, White clothing, mistaken reconstruction, and pure whimsy. They might be the new face of the Red man, as Ghost believed, or they might be a dead end, outcasts from the autonomous tribes of the Council lands. Whatever they were, this neighborhood was their home; they had made it relatively safe for their own members and any who acknowledged their dominance.

Those three at the mouth of the alley were the muscle who ran the shadows and the spotters and scouts who blended into the bricks until their eyes seemed everywhere. They were good at what they did. They had to be. Their type was either good or dead.

As though sensing Dodger’s gaze, the leader of the three turned slowly and glared up at the Elf. Dodger didn’t remember the kid’s name, but the hate on his face revealed how hard the street had been before the urban tribe took him in.

Wanting the respect people gave to Ghost, known throughout the plex and beyond as a near-matchless warrior, this street warrior tried to emulate him by adopting the older Indian’s technocreed and cybering up. Already he wore the red-painted warrior bars on his arm as a badge of his lethal prowess in the turf wars that were the tribe’s battlefields. But the perfect vision of those chrome eyes couldn’t let him see that toughness and street smarts were not enough to make a leader. As long as he held to his hate, he would be a punk, blind to the wisdom that made Ghost Who Walks Inside the chief of his people.

A hand on Dodger’s shoulder broke his reverie. Turning, he saw Ghost standing before him, sweaty and smelling of sex. The ragged denim cut-offs, beaded vest, and sheen of perspiration set off the muscularity of his trim build. His curled fingers hid the faint etching of induction pads on his palms, but the absence of his habitual headband exposed the four studs along Ghost’s left temple. The apparent naturalness was a subtlety of style and strategy that the punk, with his chrome eyes and blatant bodyshop muscle implants, had missed.

Ghost’s dark eyes sparkled, and he grinned, showing uneven teeth. “Practicing your chivalry, Elf?”

“Discretion is ever advised in affairs concerning the fairer sex, O Samurai of the Streets.”

“Give her a minute.”

“Certes, Sir Razorguy.” it was not as though Dodger had never seen Sally naked before, but Ghost might not be aware of that fact. He waved a hand in the general direction of the sentries. “Your warriors passed me through without a word that you and Sally were occupied.”

“Not their biz.”

No, but they would have known. “Perhaps they thought to gain amusement at my expense, expecting you to react violently to an intrusion.”

Ghost glanced down at his soldiers. “Hunh. Jason just might. He doesn’t know me half as well as he thinks. Let’s go inside.”

Ghost led the way through the window, moving slowly, no doubt to block Dodger’s view until the Indian was certain Sally was decent. The Elf smiled at the Indian’s back and followed.

Sally Tsung sat cross-legged on the foam pad that served as a bed. The University of Seattle T-shirt clung to her body, practically transparent in its contact with her damp skin. The shirt might have been more than long enough to cover a more modest lady, but Sally’s position had hiked it up over her hips to reveal dark blue panties. A lurid Dragon tattoo crawled down the length of her right arm to rest it’s chin on the back of the hand brushing back her blonde hair She was disheveled and reeked as much as Ghost, but she was beautiful.