by Simon Hawke
“I came alone,” said Simko.
“Just you? Against a necromancer?”
“I was only supposed to check you out. They don’t know about you for sure, they only suspect. But if I don’t report back in, they’ll know then.”
“I see,” said Talon. The black man stood behind him silently, impassively. “A persuasive argument for keeping you alive, then, is that it?”
Simko tried to shrug, but found he couldn’t. “Well…”
“What do you know about the avatars, the ones who bear the runestones?”
“They’re working with the ITC. If I don’t come back, they’ll be coming after you next.”
“Will they, indeed? How interesting. This is going very well. You’re being most cooperative.”
“Why make things difficult?”
“Why, indeed? But it strikes me that we could make things easier still. You could still be lying. Why waste time with all this conversation when I could simply take what I need to know directly from your mind?”
Simko shivered as he felt icy tendrils probing him, spreading slowly through his mind like the feeder roots of some rapidly growing parasitic vine, like little worms writhing in his brain. It felt cold, so very cold.… He clenched his teeth lightly, stiffening as he felt Talon entering his mind, feeling the cold numbness start spreading through him. He thought about the tanned, long-legged girls on the beach in their thong bikinis; the smooth stretches of gleaming white sand; the vivid, sparkling, sun-kissed blue of the Caribbean…
He could feel Talon going deeper, merging with his mind…
He thought of tall iced drinks of rum and fruit juice with little pink and green and red umbrellas in them, slices of fruit garnishing the top, so smooth and inviting he could almost taste them…
Come on, you bastard, he thought, come on in just a little more, a little more…
He redoubled his concentration, pushing the thought aside lest it be detected. Warm wind gently blowing, palm trees bending, seagulls crying, steel drums playing in the distance…
He felt Talon’s amused chuckle in his mind as he found the place where he dreamed his reverie and shared it with him for a moment before rudely brushing it aside…
Simko bit down hard on the cyanide capsule implanted in his tooth.
Gotcha! was his last lucid thought as he felt Talon’s alarm at the poison rapidly permeating his body, and then both he and Talon became caught in the whirling vortex of the involuntary terror of life ebbing rapidly, awareness poisoned, the sudden flood of pain, the wash of white light—
Talon staggered back, recoiling from the contact as Simko’s lifeless body, suddenly released, collapsed to the floor of the cavern like a sack. Doubled over, Talon held his hands up to his head, moaning, struggling to maintain his balance, retching with dry heaves.
For a moment, the control of the necromancer broken, Rafe came back to full awareness from the dim, conscious, yet anesthetized state he had been in and he blinked, shaking his head, then his gaze focused on Talon, bent over and retching, gagging, going down to one knee as his body spasmed…
With a snarl, Rafe lunged for him.
“No!” Talon’s shout reverberated through the cavern as he threw his arm out and Rafe felt himself suddenly hurled backward, flying through the air as if shot out of a cannon. He struck the cavern wall, fully thirty feet away, and the impact stunned him, driving the breath out of him as he struck solid rock and fell to the cavern floor, bleeding and barely conscious.
Talon gulped for breath as he straightened, shaking off the death throes of the ITC agent. He stared at Simko’s body with disbelief as the full realization of what had just happened hit him. The miserable cur had not only taken his own life, but he had tried to drag Talon down with him. Talon had almost completely extended his awareness into the unresisting human’s mind. Another second and there would have been no escape.
The last thought that had flashed triumphantly through Simko’s mind… How could he have known? Talon stood over the body, breathing heavily. No, he couldn’t have known. He wasn’t an adept, he could have known nothing about the principles of merging and projection, the risks involved, even to immortals. Somehow, intuitively, he had sensed it, sensed that he could pull Talon down into the void with him; Talon had felt Simko’s consciousness grasping at him as it faded into oblivion…
He kicked the body savagely.
He heard a deep moan and turned to see Rafe stirring slightly, trying to get up. “And you…” he said through tightly gritted teeth. “I see we have not quite learned who is the master yet. Well, we shall have to remedy that little failing, won’t we?”
Rafe’s scream echoed through the cavern.
This one she wasn’t going to kill just yet. This was the one she had been working toward, the one who could help her fulfill her task, after which she would be free to leave Washington and return to Arizona’s warmth and sunshine and wide-open spaces. Maybe she’d settle in Sedona. It was nice there and she could meet interesting people. She snuggled against the man lying in bed with her and smiled as she thought about it. She felt him nuzzling her neck and rolled her eyes.
“I can’t believe I’m actually sleeping with a senator!” Maria said as she turned to face him.
He chuckled. “How is the experience shaping up for you?”
She kissed him. “Very nicely. But if they told me back in Tucson that something like this was going to happen, I’d have said they were crazy. I never even thought I’d ever get to meet a senator.”
“How’d you like to meet the President?” he asked.
“The President?” She made her eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Ummhmm. “ He fondled her breast. “What would your friends in Tucson say if you told them you had dinner at the White House?”
“My God. They wouldn’t believe it!”
“Not even if you showed them a photograph of yourself with the President and the First Gentleman?”
“Is he really as good-looking as he looks on television?” she asked.
The senator grinned. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t really notice things like that. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. He’s got a bit of a wandering eye. I’m sure he’d notice you. “ “But… I wouldn’t have anything to wear to a dinner at the White House,” Maria said, letting a note of disappointment creep into her voice.
“Well, I think we could fix that,” the senator replied, letting his hand wander lower. “That dress you wore tonight would certainly get their attention, but it’s not exactly the sort of thing you’d wear to a formal dinner. I’ll have one of my aides take you shopping tomorrow and help you pick out something nice. My treat, for being so lovely.”
“I don’t know what to say!”
“You don’t have to thank me by talking.”
She smiled and slipped down under the covers. Makes no difference, she thought, rich or poor, senator or working-class stiff. When it comes right down to it, a John is a John.
Makepeace sat in the hotel dining room, drinking his fifth cup of coffee and nervously glancing at his watch. Simko should have been back by now. They had been due to meet for dinner and discuss what he had learned before calling New York and making their report. He had wanted to call right away, but had let Simko talk him out of it.
“Look, we can’t just call Wetterman and send up the balloon because the guy’s got red hair and green eyes, for God’s sake. We need to have something more solid.”
“Such as what?” Makepeace had asked. “We already have more than enough to warrant taking this very seriously. What do you expect to learn up there?”
“I don’t know yet. I want to have a look around the place. Meet the guy, see his face.”
“Victor, you’re taking a very big risk. And it’s an unnecessary one.”
“What risk?” Simko had said, downplaying it. “I’m a PI from New York, looking for a missing girl who’s a druggie. I don’t look like a cop. I’m too damn old to be a Bureau fiel
d agent, and I’m not exactly a newcomer at this game, Sebastian.”
“You are at this one.”
“Look, I can’t take you with me and that’s that. It would look suspicious, and besides, if there’s a chance he could sense you as a fellow immortal, it would give the whole game away and then we’d really wind up in hot water. And I don’t want to go giving any false alarms. Wetterman would have my ass in a sling and I could kiss my retirement plans good-bye. I want to see the place, get a feel for it, and for him, before we do anything else. We’ll meet back here for dinner at about seven and we’ll talk about it, okay?”
Makepeace glanced at his watch again. Seven-thirty. He shouldn’t have let him go alone. But then, Victor was an old pro. He wouldn’t do anything foolish. Would he? But what did he expect to learn? Did he think Talon would be so careless as to give himself away? He had a bed feeling; this. Maybe he should call New York, anyway.
“Mr. Makepeace?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“Telephone call for you, sir.”
He took the phone. “Where the bloody hell are you?” he said with exasperation.
“Makepeace?”
“Who is this?” Makepeace asked, momentarily disoriented.
“Wetterman. Who did you think it was?”
“Oh. I thought you were Victor.”
“Isn’t Simko with you?”
“No. He went to Dragon Park to check things out. I was supposed to meet him here about half an hour ago.”
“He may not be showing up,” Wetterman said tensely. “It’s the real thing, Sebastian. We’ve got a fire. The team is already en route.”
Makepeace shut his eyes. “I knew it! I never should have let him go up there alone.”
“Maybe he’s just running late,” said Wetterman. “He’s not a. fool; he wouldn’t have given himself away. He probably just went to get a reading for a confirmation.”
“What do you mean, a reading?”
“He was issued a miniature T-scanner, disguised as a watch. Check the time, take a reading. Very unobtrusive.”
“What?” said Makepeace. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? You idiot! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You may as well have given him a neon sign!”
“You’re overreacting. We tested it extensively with ninth-level adepts and up,” said Wetterman. “Even twelfth-level sorcerers couldn’t detect its emanations. They were much too subtle and—”
“Not for an immortal, you damn fool!” said Makepeace loudly, causing several heads to turn in his direction as he jumped up and sent his chair crashing to the floor. “You stupid, arrogant son of a bitch, you’ve killed him!”
He threw down the phone and sprinted from the dining room, leaving Wetterman repeating his name over and over on the other end.
Chapter 8
The small military jet was being flown by a rotating team of pilot adepts. It was exhausting work. With all remaining fuel reserves used up in the last century, most ground and air transport operated on the principles of levitation and impulsion. Thaumaturgic batteries powered ground cars, save those operated for public transport, such as cabs, limousines, and buses, which were propelled by the spells of driver adepts. They were magic users, but of the lowest level. Trains operated on electricity generated at power plants maintained by sorcerer adepts, usually fourth-level or higher. Navigational adepts captained passenger ships and freighters. Air transport, however, was the most demanding and exacting of the transportational adept specialties.
Passenger planes were flown by a pilot and co-pilot adept, with usually at least one pilot adept in rotational reserve, enabling them to maintain a spell of levitation and impulsion that would propel the aircraft through the skies with stately silence, if at a considerably more leisurely pace than in the old pre-Collapse days. It was taxing work, maintaining the spells, which was why pilot adept was among the highest paid of magic use professions and pilots were legally required to spend time in recovery after each flight, with long paid vacations being an added bonus of the job. It was also why advanced-level adepts always flew for free, because another adept on board was always welcome. For military and police purposes, however, speed was often of the essence and instead of levitation and impulsion, a different spell was used, one that worked directly on the engines in the place of fuel that was no longer available. Keeping the engines spinning at the required speeds was physically even more taxing and used up more energy the faster the aircraft was propelled. The small military jet aboard which Billy, Kira, Angelo, and Wyrdrune flew had been designed to seat twenty people—fifteen of whom were the flight crew.
From time to time, the door to the cockpit opened and a pilot adept came out, bathed in sweat, to collapse wearily into a seat and almost immediately fall into a deep sleep while another member of the flight crew went in to relieve him. By the time they reached their destination, Wyrdrune knew, the entire crew would be wrung out. They’d be picked up at the airport, taken to a hospital for observation, and then placed on recovery leave for at least a month before returning to active ground duty, unable to fly again until a thaumaturgically trained MD pronounced them fit.
Magic permeated every aspect of modern life, thought Wyrdrune, so much so that most people took it totally for granted. And it all started only three-quarters of a century ago, when Merlin awoke from his long slumber and single-handedly changed the world. Wyrdrune glanced at Billy, sitting in the seat across from him, next to Angelo. They had all come so far in what seemed like so short a time. Where would it all end?
Kira was sitting in the seat next to him, staring pensively out the window at the clouds and the patchwork of ground far below. She’d been very quiet after he’d told her about her transformation and what had happened while she had become Alira, one of the spirits of the runestone. She had recalled none of it. It was as if she’d blinked and missed it.
It was strange, thought Wyrdrune. While he had shared consciousness with Modred, it had been exactly that, sharing consciousness. They were aware of each other at all rimes. He knew Modred’s thoughts and felt his energy and Modred knew and felt Wyrdrune’s. When he had occasionally metamorphosed into Modred, he had always been completely conscious of what was going on. The feeling had been similar in a way to astral projection, that peculiar sensation of floating up above your body, looking down at it, apart from it yet still connected. Except when Modred had manifested, it wasn’t like looking down from the outside, but looking out from within.
Except Kira did not remember.
He tried to recall the times Billy had metamorphosed into Gorlois, before Gorlois had given up his individual life essence and fused it with Merlin’s to save Billy’s life, creating a new personality that was a manifestation of all three. Sometimes Billy had recalled what had occurred while Gorlois had manifested, sometimes he was foggy on the details.
But Kira did not remember.
He thought of Angelo, to whom Modred’s runestone passed. It wasn’t the same with Angelo as it had been with him. Modred seemed to have become subsumed into Angelo’s personality, as if merging with him the way Gorlois and Merlin had merged with Billy. But Angelo came out of it with pieces of Modred’s memory intact, and as time went on, he seemed to find more pieces and, with the help of ongoing therapy, incorporate them into who he was—or who he had become.
But Kira did not remember.
It worried him, but it worried her much more. Even since the whole thing started, Kira had been the one who was not only the most fascinated by the transformations they had gone through, but also the most frightened by them, because up till now, it had not happened to her.
They had all responded differently. Billy, to whom it had happened first when Merlin’s spirit had possessed him, had thought he was losing his mind in the beginning, but after a time, he had accepted it—though it was a contentious sort of acceptance. One of his favorite pastimes had been going out and getting drunk and then “assigning” the hangover to Merlin. Then Merlin h
ad started getting some of his own back. Just when they had reached a sort of uneasy modus vivendi, Gorlois came into the picture and Billy’s psyche had, for a time, become a battleground between the father and the son. Now, Billy was integrated… and a different Billy altogether, while still being essentially the same. He seemed to have no trouble handling it, but then, Billy was Billy. An orphan who grew up abandoned on the streets of London and had packed a knife before he had even reached puberty could probably handle just about anything without flinching.
The same, perhaps, could have been said of Angelo, except that was not the case. Though he was a tough street cop who had seen more than his share of heavy situations, Angelo had been shaken up by the transformation induced by the ruby runestone that had passed to him. It had turned his world upside down and inside out, and for all his flip, Brooklyn macho, devil-may-care manner, John was having a tough time with it still. Most of the time, he acted as if the therapy were merely something that he had to go through, like a psychological evaluation after shooting someone in the line of duty, but he wasn’t just going through the motions. It was important to him and it had helped enormously. The whole thing still unsettled him, but at least he was maintaining.
Which leaves me, Wyrdrune thought. For some reason, it had never bothered him. He had taken the merging with Modred as a matter of course, just another fascinating and bizarre experience that life had thrown at him. And a lot of it was fun. Especially the rather psychically kinky three-way relationship they had enjoyed with Kira, who had been both turned on and spooked by it at the same time. It just hadn’t freaked him out at all. Well, maybe a little, right at first, but he soon accepted it, incorporated it into his worldview, and went on with taking care of business—which, in this case happened to be saving the world.
Was it all just a matter of perspective? Did the importance of their task so far overshadow any personal considerations that it just never really got to him? Or was there something strange about the way that he was wired that seemed to allow him to accept the most amazing, life-transforming things without getting too shook up about them? What was it?