And build I had since I'd left Seattle. I was no " slicer"—one of those bleeding-edge console cowboys who shave black ice for the pure quivering thrill of it—but I'd turned myself into a pretty fair code-jockey. I didn't chase down data as such; let the slicers beat their neurons against corporate glaciers if that was their idea of fun. In contrast, though, I was starting to build a reasonable rep for turning the raw paydata that others collected into usable information. I'd learned just what kind of resources were available out there on the Matrix—open to all comers, or with minimal security—and just how to make best use of them. It was just another extension of the rule by which I'd been living my life since arriving in Cheyenne: No Exposure.