WebMage

by Kelly McCullough

  "All right. We'll have to take this to extremes. Melchior, Scorched Earth. Execute." His eyes got very wide, and he looked like he wanted to object, but I had phrased it as a direct order.

  "Loading."

  There was a long pause as Melchior prepped the spell. It was too big to keep in active memory. I had time to wonder if I was going too far. Melchior's voice came again.

  "Executing."

  No time for second thoughts. Scorched Earth is not a spell that can be aborted halfway. Ultimately, all spells draw power from the same source, the primal chaos that churns between the worlds. But my family mostly uses the predigested forces my grandmother and her sisters channel into the net via their mainframe webservers. Scorched Earth isn't like that. It taps directly into the interworld chaos. That means it's both very dangerous and very powerful. It also means I don't have to have web access to run it. Melchior's voice interrupted my train of thought.

  "Scorched Earth successfully implemented," he said.

  With those simple words, the nastiest virus I had yet coded was released into the mweb. If it worked, it would scramble the routers for my whole node band and put my great-aunt's webhounds smack in the middle of a data storm. There was no way they'd be able to track me through that. There was even a chance of completely fragging them.

  "Uh, Boss," said Melchior.

  "Yes. What is it, Mel."

  "I just lost contact with the carrier wave."

  "I thought you couldn't get in."

  "I couldn't, but that's not what I meant. I mean it just cut out completely."

  "It can't do that, unless…" I trailed off as a really ugly thought occurred to me. I looked at Melchior, and he nodded.

  "There's no carrier wave and no mweb line," he said. "I can't even get a ping off the backbone. I think we just took the entire net down, Boss."

  "Sweet Necessity," I murmured. "What have I done now?"

  * * * *

  Sitting at the desk in my dorm, I cradled my head in my hands. Melchior sat on the floor nearby. For four hours we'd been trying to establish some kind of link to the mweb. Nothing worked. There was very little doubt that we'd crashed the whole damn thing. If this was ever traced back to me, I'd have more to worry about than Atropos.

  "Well, Mel, I think it's time we admitted—" He held a hand up.

  He cocked his long, pointed ears this way and that for a few moments, then got up and walked to the network jack in the wall. Looking confused, he wetted a fingertip and stuck it into the socket. A moment later he let out a prolonged modulated whistle.

  "Uh, Boss. I don't know that you're going to believe this, but you've got new mail."

  "Over the local net?"

  "Yes, indeedy."

  "What is it?"

  "It's from Cerice. She wants a visual ASAP."

  "Over the local line? That's going to lock a lot of folks out of their online services. Where is she mailing from?"

  "Cerice@shara.gob via AOL.com."

  "Well, so much for AOL for the next twenty minutes or so. I wonder what she's doing in this DecLocus."

  Cerice is even further down Clotho's bloodline than I am Lachesis's, making us something like forty-seventh cousins and barely related, but we're of an age and have been friends since our teens. No one seems to know quite how long the children of Fate might live, but none of the family has yet to die of old age or even to look as though they someday might. If it weren't for a very low birth rate and an actuary's nightmare of violent death—mostly accidental but occasionally with intent—we'd be legion. As it is, there are certainly fewer than five hundred of us and, counting Cerice and me, no more than a dozen under the age of forty. Since I'd thought she was home in Clotho's domain working on a hardware-recycling project she'd been rather intense about of late, finding her here seemed almost too odd.

  "Melchior, Vlink; Ravirn@melchior.gob via umn.edu to Cerice @shara.gob viaAOL.com. Execute."

  "Aye, aye. Searching for shara.gob." I used the brief pause that followed to drop the spell that altered my appearance. "Contact. Waiting for a response from shara.gob. Lock. Annexing extra bandwidth. Vtp linking initiated."

  Melchior opened his eyes and mouth wide. Three beams of light—green, blue, and red—shot forth from these orifices intersecting at a point several feet in front of his face. A translucent golden globe appeared at this juncture. It fogged, then filled with the three-dimensional image of a strikingly beautiful young woman. Her hair was so pale as to be almost white. Aside from that, her features bore a strong resemblance to my own, the primary difference being that on her they looked better. She was wearing some sort of formal court gown in a taffeta that seemed to shift from red to gold depending how the light hit it. It was very low cut, but a half jacket prevented it from being indecent.

  "Cerice, my darling," I said. "You're as ravishing as ever. It's an absolute pleasure to rest my weary eyes on your delightful features once again." Even under these circumstances I couldn't help but be pleased to see her.

  "Charming as always, Ravirn. Your absence must be sorely felt at your grandmother's court."

  "Alas, I think not. While Lachesis has some fondness for me, it seems to be in inverse proportion to my proximity. I suspect that my manner charms less than my nature offends."

  "Speaking of which," said Cerice, shifting from courtly circumlocution to businesslike directness, "you have a major problem."

  "Oh," I replied. The change in gears was jarring.

  "Look, I know family politics calls for a lot of polite nonsense and frills before finally broaching the real subject for conversation, but you just don't have the time."

  "All right, I'm willing to dispense with formality. I was dying to ask you how you happened to be in this particular DecLocus at this exact moment anyway. I thought you were home."

  "I was until twenty minutes ago."

  "But—"

  She cut me off smoothly. "Yes, I know. The net's down. I hacked into Clotho's mainframe and used it to open a single-use one-way gate."

  "That must have been a cast-iron bitch."

  She smiled. "It wasn't that bad. You're not the only competent coder in this generation. But I didn't call to exchange hacking tricks. I called to let you know you're in hot water all the way up to your eyeballs."

  "How hot?" I asked glumly.

  "Atropos wants your head."

  Sweat popped out along my brow line. But over an open link I didn't dare talk about what was going on. Also, as much as I liked Cerice, on this topic I didn't dare trust any of Fate's children. Besides, there was no way she'd believe the truth.

  "That's not news," I said, leaning back in my chair and trying to look relaxed. "Atropos has always held a special, black little place in her heart for me. It's because of my hacking. She writes lousy security algorithms, then blames me when I demonstrate it to her."

  "Ravirn, don't be more of an idiot than usual. We both know she's security-mad. Her firewalls and program killers are better than either Clotho's or Lachesis's. But you're an egotistical bastard, and Atropos is the only opponent you think is worth your effort. Unfortunately, you haven't the wit to crack them without leaving a calling card of some kind so you can gloat about it later."

  "Well, yeah, but…" I wanted to defend myself, but the only argument I had was one I couldn't make.

  "But me no buts. As I said, you haven't the time. Not after you crashed the whole net. That wasn't smart."

  "It wasn't actually my intention."

  "Intention or not, that was the result, and it's given Atropos the opportunity she's been waiting for. The net wasn't down five minutes before she showed up at Clotho's demesne. They called council, and when Lachesis arrived, Atropos demanded your head. Lachesis apparently has some attachment to you, because she absolutely refused to hear of it. Unfortunately for you, Clotho sided with Atropos." Cerice paused and cocked her head to the side. "Though I think that might have been as much to see how well you operated under the pressure as anything. She seems to
have a soft spot for you, though I can't imagine why."

  I felt a rushing sensation in my head. I had known, in the abstract at least, that something like this could happen, but I hadn't really believed it.

  "I'm screwed," I whispered. And I was, in more ways than one. My credibility had just been irrevocably shattered. I had to get that spell crystal. Without it, any accusation I laid against Atropos would never be believed. My grandmother would just assume I was seeking revenge.

  "Yes." Cerice nodded. "But not quite totally screwed. Atropos couldn't cut your thread without unanimous agreement."

  I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

  "But with the net crashed and Clotho backing her, Atropos was able to get Lachesis to allow a proxy assassination attempt."

  "Who?"

  "Moric, Dairn, and Hwyl."

  "All three?" My relief vanished. "Just for little old me?"

  "Lachesis only agreed to one attempt. Atropos didn't want it to fail."

  "When was the conference?"

  "About an hour ago."

  "Powers and Incarnations, I've got to get moving." I started to tell Melchior to close the connection, then paused. "Cerice, thank you. If I survive, I'll owe you my life. If not… Well, if not, I'll still owe you a great deal, but you'll likely have a hard time collecting. I have to know. Why did you warn me?"

  She smiled fondly. "Despite your pigheadedness, arrogance, and willful idiocy, you do have an impish sort of charm. The world and I would be the poorer for your passing. Now get out of there." Her hand waved briefly, then the picture faded away.

  "Melchior, log us off and shut down all incoming network traffic."

  "Yes sir, right away, sir. Will we be running away now, sir?"

  "Damn straight we'll be' running away." So much for the promise I'd given Lachesis to improve my grades.

  "Very good, sir. Brightest thing you've done all day, sir."

  "Don't push your luck, blue boy. I might leave you as a distraction for the assassins. Now, Mel, I want you to—Chaos and Discord!" It hit me like a ton of bricks.

  "Ah… I'm not sure I'm familiar with that one, Boss."

  "Mel, the net's down. The hit team will be coming the same way Cerice did. We have no way of knowing when they'll arrive. For that matter they could be here already."

  The impulse to run out the door was almost overwhelming. I choked it down. I had to run, but I had to run smart. Moving as quickly as possible, I grabbed my rapier and a left-handed shoulder holster out of the trunk. When those were strapped on, I leaned down and tapped the combination into the speed-draw gunsafe bolted to the underside of my bed.

  The drawer popped open, and I pulled out my beat-on but much loved Colt .45. Before holstering the old Model 1911, I worked the slide to chamber a round, flipped the safety on, and popped the clip. Then I loaded another bullet and returned the clip to the pistol.

  As no one had yet broken my door in, I took the time to kick off my boots and jeans and swap them for TechSec racing leathers. Finally, I grabbed the shoulder bag I keep packed for emergencies.

  "Come on, Melchior." I opened the flap on my bag. "Let's go."

  "It's about time," replied the goblin as he climbed into the bag. "You were moving so slowly I thought you were going to put down roots."

  "Listen," I began, then thought better of it. "Later, if I'm still alive, I'm going to rework your OS." I snatched my motorcycle helmet and gauntlets and opened the door.

  Chapter Two

  On the other side of my dorm door was a huge figure dressed in lamalar armor. From the demon-faced helm a voice said, "Say good night, Gracie." Then a massive fist holding an Afghani punch-dagger slammed into my chest, right over the heart. The blow knocked me halfway across the room. It felt like it cracked a rib as well, but thanks to the multilayer Kevlar lining TechSec built into all its racing gear, it failed to kill me.

  I didn't think I'd get that lucky twice. Hand to hand in a small room with my cousin Moric was a recipe for quick death. His abilities as a sorcerer are not fantastic, but for the past couple of hundred years he's been focusing them on physical enhancement. On that score, there aren't many in the family who can match him.

  In this case discretion was the only part of valor. Unfortunately, he was between me and the door. That left exactly one possible exit. Holding my helmet in front of me, I dived through the windowpane. That solved the immediate problem, but left me outside of the window of my twentieth-floor room.

  "Melchior, Fear of Falling. Execute now, now, now!"

  The goblin stuck his head out of the bag. "I-aiee! Executing."

  We'd dropped nine floors. A prerecorded version of a spell spewed from his tiny blue lips. At a million or so kilobaud it sounded like a whippoorwill on speed, but it did the trick. Three floors above the ground, our headlong plunge became a leisurely drift. I pulled on my helmet and gloves. It looked like I was going to need them before I ever got to my motorcycle.

  My feet had barely touched ground when something struck me above the collarbone and burned across my neck. More by reflex than conscious thought I tucked my chin into my chest, so the second arrow struck the chin piece of my helmet instead of my throat. The arrow shattered, my helmet cracked, and my head just about came off. I could taste blood from a mashed lip. Groggily I turned and dashed for River Road and the cover of the cars parked there. Two more arrows hit me in the back as I went but didn't pierce the Kevlar. I was going to need a new jacket and a pile of painkillers, but at least I wasn't leaking any precious bodily fluids.

  Once I reached the road, I ducked behind an old Dodge Ram and opened my jacket far enough to grab my pistol. Then I carefully zipped it up again. I needed all the protection I could get. I also needed a plan.

  If this conflict stayed purely physical, I was going to die. I am significantly stronger, tougher, and faster than a normal human. But so is everyone in my extended family. When you put me on a scale filled only with my relatives, the picture changes completely. I weigh in firmly in the featherweight division. Moric and his brothers are all ultraheavyweights with attitude.

  Unfortunately, I don't do my best thinking under pressure. The arrows smashing into the truck didn't help. A plan would have to wait until I put a little more distance between me and my homicidal cousins. The only problem was how to do that. The archer, probably Dairn, who pulled a 225-pound bow, was shooting at me from the ramp where my cycle was parked.

  I couldn't stay where I was. I couldn't get to my bike. Moric would be out of the dorm and back in the game shortly, and Hwyl was out there somewhere as well. To my left, River Road wound past the parking ramp. To the right, it curved sharply north and went under the Washington Avenue bridge. Directly across from me a thin strip of trees masked a steep plunge to the Mississippi. I considered the choices, then, keeping the cars between me and the ramp as much as possible, I headed for the bridge. I was almost there when I heard a low, gurgling growl. Intellectually I'd known Hwyl must be around someplace. Emotionally I'd been pretending he didn't exist. So much for that. I tapped my shoulder bag.

  "Mel?" I whispered. "You still alive in there?"

  A muffled voice replied, "Battered, but serviceable, Boss. What do you want?"

  "Melchior, Redeye. Execute."

  "Executing."

  My visual range expanded to the infrared, and I peered at the gap under the bridge. A broad, hulking, inhuman shape lurked there. Eyes, lamp bright in the IR, glared at me. Hwyl. Yippee. Careful not to make any sudden movements, I thumbed the .45's safety off.

  Hwyl took a step toward me. My intestines did a back-flip with a half twist. The things Hwyl has used his magic to do to himself give me the screaming creepies. Forcing myself to move with precision, I snapped the pistol up into line and fired four quick rounds at his knees. I could see bone and tissue shatter and pulp under the impact of the heavy copper-jacketed slugs. Turning to my right, I ran up the slope to the bridge, cursing all the way.

  It might take several minutes for Hwyl
's injuries to mend, but mend they would, especially with a full moon. Lacking silver weapons, nothing I could do would keep him down. That's why I aimed for the knees. Almost any other wound he could have taken and kept coming, but even a were can't walk with broken knees.

  My options were rapidly narrowing. Hwyl had pushed me into a narrow killing ground. On my left was the long, barren expanse of concrete that made up the car deck of the Washington Avenue bridge. On my right the alien stainless-steel angles of the Weisman Art Museum gleamed in the moonlight. The twisted mirrors of its construction threw my distorted reflection back at me. Something about it spoke to me, and I paused to look at it and, finally, to think. I touched the cold metal. The warped picture in its depths seemed to offer me refuge. It was the message I needed.

  Turning around, I grabbed hold of one of the I beams that supported the upper deck of the bridge and hand-over-handed my way up it. I crawled over the rail at the top a few yards from the doors to the Weisman. They were locked. They were also glass. A small concrete-and-steel ashtray stood nearby. I picked it up and heaved it through the glass.

  A brutal clanging alarm went off. As a sort of counterpoint, I could hear the approaching wail of police sirens, probably in response to the gunshots. In a few minutes the whole area was going to be flooded with cops. Unless the officers were very lucky, they were going to end up going toe to toe with my cousins. I winced. But the only thing I could do about it was to remove myself from the equation as quickly as possible.

  With that as an additional spur I raced down the main stairs and into the Red Gallery, where the exhibit A Distorted Mirror: Our World Through the Eyes of the New Surrealists was housed. I turned left, past the sculpture of a giant melting Chihuahua, and started looking for the right sort of painting.

  Before an electronic web tied the worlds together, there had been an artistic one. Almost from humanity's beginning, there have been artists interested in representing and interpreting the world around them. A small but significant number of them can see past their own world to paint the others beyond. In the early years my grandmother and her sisters had used such gateways as their primary means to travel between the spheres.