by Carl Sargent
"Two out of three isn't bad," Serrin said affably as he fumbled around for a cigarette. The streetlights flashing by bathed his gaunt face in sodium streaks. The cab was back into civilization by now.
"Not to mention the fact that we're now dealing, apparently, with two sets of people who have an interest in kidnapping or killing you. Or maybe three, actually, if you consider that a small race war is probably about to break out down here. And Magellan's still loose out there. You said he sounded Stateside; he may have tracked us from there. No going back to Cape Town, term. It's a direct bolt all the way home to the Rotten Apple, old boy."
"But what about Kristen's passport? Will it get past immigration?" Serrin already knew the answer.
"About as much chance as a snowball in hell," Michael said grimly. They fell silent. The solution had already occurred to the Englishman, but he wasn't sure how he was going to sell it to Serrin.
"There's one thing we could do," Michael said slowly. "She's got her own ID, amazingly enough. The real thing. You need it when the police hassle you on the streets, she told me. No passport, obviously. And that's the problem. It would take days to get one and we just don't have that time. But amp; "
Then he finally told the elf what he had in mind.
"Look, you can't be the one to do it," the Englishman argued when Serrin protested. "I mean, it would be too difficult under the circumstances. A bit, um, premature. No, I didn't mean that. You know what I mean. I think. But / could do it. I'm naturalized. Dual nationality."
Serrin stared at him, wide-eyed.
"This is going to cost Geraint a bloody fortune," the Englishman lamented. "I mean, I never thought it would happen like this."
Serrin still stared furiously at him.
"Don't look at me like that," Michael snarled. "Think of the favor I'm doing you, you ungrateful swine."
Serrin still didn't say so, but he knew Michael was right. There was no other way. Attempted bribery wouldn't get them any further than a hefty jail term back in New York. And it would, indeed, take far too long to wait for official paperwork in Cape Town. Only a day or two more, Magellan had said.
"But how are we going to manage it?"
"Bet you Indra will know someone," Michael said. "She seems to know everyone. Let's just hope she does."
When they got to the hotel, Serrin took off his filthy jacket and handed it to the Englishman before he and Tom went in.
While he waited, Michael shook the sleeping girl. "Wake up, Kristen. This is important."
"What? Where are we now?" she said sleepily. He
went on shaking her, ignoring the protest from his bad arm.
"Listen carefully to me. I have a proposition for you."
"Let's pray the Dutch Reformed Evangelical Church is good enough," Michael said as they staggered out onto the runway in Manhattan's late dawn.
The last eight hours had been a blur. It had been so long since they'd had a good night's sleep that they hardly knew what day it was. Later, the frantic phone calls, the paperwork, the endless wait at the airport, the bizarre scene hurried through almost under the noses of immigration, getting their photos lacquered onto the cards, the restlessness of the suborbital flight.
"God, that plastic had better get us through here." Michael took a deep breath and put his arm around Kristen, the pair of them heading for immigration just ahead of Serrin and Tom. The bored official took one look at Michael's ID and ushered him away into a side room.
Michael had thought the only way to be sure about getting Kristen back into New York was to use his real, genuine, documents. His ID would be scrutinized too closely for him to risk a fake, no matter how good it was. Now he had to sweat for twenty minutes before the official even arrived to speak with him.
"So you married a distant cousin, huh?" the man said, not looking at the Englishman, holding the identity card as if it might communicate leprosy if kept too long. "George, put this drek through the analyzers. And his passport. Hit them with everything we've got.
"You don't sound much like an American to me," the inspector said flatly, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at Michael.
"Dual citizenship, my friend. Qualified two years ago. It's absolutely kosher." Shattered with fatigue, Michael held on to the optimistic thought that they were checking him, and the card, and not Kristen's ID. At least, so he hoped.
The man just grunted and waited. It was another fifteen agonizing minutes of silence before George, the other interrogator, returned. He handed Michael's passport and the car to his superior.
"It checks out. Visual ID on the girl; that's her. It's all in order," he said.
"Fine. Now work the girl over," the first man said nastily.
"Please," Michael said desperately, "I want to get my wife home. We're distant cousins and our families are very close. I'm an American citizen. I've been traveling a long way and I want to get home. Also, maybe you noticed that one of my traveling companions is Mr. Serrin Shamandar. Maybe you've heard about him saving the mayor's life down at Columbia the other day. We've been waiting more than half an hour while you checked on all this, and now you tell me you're going to keep us even longer. I'm sorry, officer, but I must demand the opportunity to put a call through to the mayor's office. And might I also have your name?"
The man looked at him with utter hatred.
"It's true about Shamandar," George muttered. "The elf came in right behind him. I recognized him."
Michael could have kissed the man for that, though George's superior looked more like he wanted to kill him. "Okay, Mister Sutherland, I suppose you can go now."
Michael walked out of the room with his heart hammering in his throat, then grabbed the hand of Kristen, who'd been kept waiting outside. In the distance, they saw a troll sitting with his fourth cup of coffee and an elf with far too many cigarette butts in the ashtray beside him.
The little group staggered wearily out of the terminal and found a taxi. As Michael gave another driver another set of instructions, he felt dissociated, as if his own voice were a robot croaking through its voxsynth.
"Home. Crikey, I never wanted to be back so bad," he muttered to no one in particular. He glanced over at Serrin as if trying to focus his eyes.
"I guess I should say thanks," Serrin said. "Hell, no, I do say thanks. You're full of surprises, you know."
Michael sat back and fixed the elf with a glacial stare. Then, in a perfectly pompous, truculent English accent, he said, "I say, old boy. Get your hands off my wife."
23
Niall had always known that, one day, he'd be glad for his flying lessons. The Fiat-Fokker Cloud Nine amphibian had sat disguised for months, looked after by one of the handful of people the elf could trust. Upon arriving early that morning, he recognized the man through the heavy mist.
"Thank you, Patrick," Niall said wearily. "You have watched here awhile. You can go as you will now. You'll be looked after, though."
"Take care with you. I know what is at stake. That is, I know something," the man said quietly. "I know what the wrongness is. I don't understand why it is being allowed to happen."
"I cannot tell you that," Niall said sadly. The man had waited and watched for him all these many long weeks and months, not knowing just why. "If you knew, they would kill you. If I told you more, it would be like putting a knife through your heart here and now."
"Well, then, that is an end to it," the man said without any rancor. "You had best be moving. It will be fair spucketing soon enough."
Niall smiled and shook the hand of his helper. Then the man faded away into the mist and the elf made for the wharf on the shoreline.
He knew at just what height to fly, virtually skimming the surface of the gray Atlantic, to keep from encountering the Veil, the magical barrier of illusion protecting the Irish coast of Tir na n6g. The illusions didn't trouble him, but the possibility of detection did. Though he knew the coordinates where fluctuations were most likely, he would never get through undetec
ted unless he drew on the power of the cauldron which he also needed to conserve for the confrontation with Lutair. But I'll never get anywhere near him if I don't get through the Veil, he thought. Summoning as little of the vessel's power as he thought he could risk, he headed for the barrier and onward, across the tip of southwestern Britain and on to Brittany.
Serrin finally woke up at ten that night, after nearly sixteen hours' sleep from which an earthquake wouldn't have roused him. He felt ghastly. His bad leg throbbed like a jackhammer and his head seemed to be throbbing in time with it. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then began to cough long and hard, spitting into a handkerchief. One day, he thought, I really am going to give those damned things up.
He had to shield his eyes against the lights in Michael's workroom, dimmed though they were. Sitting with fingers poised above his keyboard, the Englishman was immaculate again in a double-breasted blazer, cavalry twill pants, and Italian leather loafers. The cord from the Fuchi was slotted into the silver of his datajack, making Michael oblivious to anything but the electronic reality of the Matrix. Tom was sitting nearby with Kristen standing behind him, braiding the troll's freshly washed, lustrous black hair. Having never seen Tom's hair loose, Serrin was astonished that it fell almost to the small of the troll's back. He was still gazing in wonderment at the sight when the printer on the desk next to Michael disgorged a scrap of paper. Serrin ripped it off and read it.
Don't forget the lovely Julia, it read.
Confused, certain that Michael couldn't be registering his presence, Serrin's thoughts were interrupted by another printed message churning forth.
There's an 1R security monitor in your room, dummy. It was programmed to print these messages out through a printer relay when you opened the door after waking up. Now go and see your lady reporter friend.
"What time is it?" Serrin asked. "Hell, what day is it?"
Tom told him. Kristen smiled shyly at him; unconsciously, the elf scratched a little at the graying stubble on
his own head. Tom had an unchallengable superiority on that score.
"Well, why not. If I get kidnapped again, just send for the cavalry like before," he muttered, getting to his feet.
"Not this time," Tom said firmly when Serrin explained what he intended doing. "This time, I'm coming with you."
"So am I," Kristen said fiercely, hurrying up her work. She looked very different now. Though she was dressed in a silk shirt of Michael's that was too big for her, Serrin thought she looked especially fine. She'd also hit the drug store, he guessed, noticing that she'd made herself up some. Then he was annoyed at himself. We're up to our ears in drek, he told himself angrily. What's the matter, Serrin? Can't you keep your mind off the ladies and focused on business?
"No. Better stay with Michael," Serrin told her. "If he gets into trouble, he'll need somebody to pull the plug on that jack mighty fast. Has he told you anything about "
"Yeah," she said. "I know. Don't worry. Go and get it done."
The strength of her voice and the determination in her tone told Serrin that more had changed than just her appearance. He very much wanted to stay and talk with her, but that wasn't possible. If it was true they had a day or two, most of one day had already elapsed. She finished braiding and stood back to admire her handiwork. Then Tom turned around and smiled at her, thanking her as he got to his feet.
"The good news is," Tom said as they rode down in the elevator, "we don't have to take a cab. Michael trusted me with his car keys."
"Is he all right?" Serrin fretted. "I mean, he took that bullet wound. Can he really risk running the matrix right now?"
"It wasn't bad. A flesh wound. He lost some blood, but he got some kind of shot once we got here. Erythrocyte enhancer," Tom said, uncertain of the words. "Iron, all kinds of drek. I fixed him up too. He's fine now.
"Shouldn't we phone the lady first and see if it's all right to come over? It's getting a little late."
"Frag that!" Serrin said with feeling. "I'm not worrying about the social graces. She didn't."
"She may be out."
"Then we'll break in," the elf said simply.
That, however, was not necessary. The door opened almost immediately after they arrived at Julia's apartment and knocked loudly on her door.
"Julia, you owe me one," Serrin said to her through the narrow gap in the door allowed by the heavy steel chain. "Something tells me you just might have a friend who knows a friend who could help me out with some info I couldn't find in any library but don't even think about getting another story out of this one."
Michael jacked out of the Zulu Nation system damned fast when the black 1C threatened. He could get the rest, he was sure, from international registries. What he had now was enough for a very good start.
Giving himself a few minutes' rest while gulping down some coffee, he was acutely aware of the girl sitting cross-legged on his sofa. The cold realization had already hit him that with that card, officially authenticated by UCAS immigration, in her bag, she was probably legally entitled to a straight fifty per cent of everything he had. At the time, it had seemed logical, the only thing to do. Damn it, it had been logical. It had also been the stupidest act he'd ever committed in his life. Michael didn't like the idea of logic and stupidity going together. Now he really couldn't think what to say to her. Burying himself in work had seemed the only thing to do.
And he'd found exactly what he'd expected in his little matrix run. The owners of the Babanango plant were a tiny firm called Amalgamated Photosynthetics, registered as a subsidiary with HKB, Britain's financial conglomerate. That meant HKB acted as a forwarding address for the real owners. For this service, the megacorp took either a fixed fee, or a percentage, depending on what their shark-skinned accountants decided was the best deal. HKB had a special division devoted purely to such leasing deals, but it was not part of the British-based corporation not so far as international law was concerned. It existed somewhere among thirty underdeveloped countries which took the crumbs HKB threw out to them and didn't ask questions. Trying to get into the divisional system to find out who had a piece of British Industrial and at least most of Amalgamated Photosynthetics would be plumb crazy. HKB had more 1C than nature had needed to sink the Titanic. Michael knew he couldn't do it. He also knew that if he didn't, they were never going to find their quarry. Unless of course Serrin's reporter friend had a precise fix, but that would be too much like counting on sheer good luck.
"Why did you do it?"
He swiveled around in his chair. "What else could we do? We had to get back here. There were at least two groups trying to take Serrin out back in Azania, maybe more. He wouldn't go without you. If we'd tried to use your fake IDs to get you into New York, they'd have had you on a rustbucket straight back to Azania the instant we arrived in Manhattan. And we didn't have time to get a passport officially."
"But you don't even know me."
"Well, not much. Maybe it had something to do with you rounding up all those Indian samurai. Without them, Serrin would be dead now. Maybe I was just a little over-grateful. I wasn't really thinking straight. I'd lost a fair bit of blood, apparently."
Kristen lit one of Serrin's cigarettes, not that she liked them much. She missed the potency of what she was used to. She decided not to ask him, again, why he hadn't let Serrin be the one. All he would say was the same thing about not wanting to ruin things for them. He'd also told her about divorce, how easy it would be after the statutory year together.
"I won't take anything," she said quietly. She curled herself up into an almost fetal position, looking for all the world as if she was about to cry. He got up and went to sit down beside her, slipping an arm around her narrow shoulders.
"What am I doing here?" she said, choking back hot tears. "I don't know anything about this city. I can't live
here. And now I got a fraggin' husband? Me got a husband I met four days ago. Is it four?"
"Slot me if I can remember," Michael said, giving
her a somewhat dazed smile. She dropped her hands from her face, looking halfway between bursting into tears and helpless laughter. His smile tipped the scales in favor of the latter.
By the time her hilarity had calmed down, he'd poured himself a gin. Then he saw from her expression that she'd like one too. He dumped in ice from the bucket and topped it with limed tonic.
"What about me? How am I going to explain it to my family? Of course, by now they've decided that I probably like boys, getting to my age and still unmarried."
"Do you?" she asked him.
"Hell, no. I love computers."
She poked him in the ribs, surprisingly hard. He fought hard to keep the mouthful of drink down.
"I do love him," she said suddenly and emphatically. Michael felt uncomfortable again, didn't know what she was going to say next.
"I know," he said almost sadly. "He loves you too." He couldn't think of anything more helpful.
"Then why doesn't he want me?"
Michael thought for a moment. "Urn, well, I guess if I'd had to run from tabloid snoops, been shot at with trank cartridges, traveled to a half-dozen countries in a week, been kidnapped, nearly blown away with a machine gun, had to rely on a bunch of people I hardly knew, and then ended up learning that some crazy vampire elf mage was about to bring Armageddon down whichever way that's going to be and we haven't figured it out yet I probably wouldn't be thinking much about romance, either. I mean, that's a drekload to worry about." He was silently praying for Serrin and Tom to knock at the door right now.
"But how can I know what he really feels? Is he going to change?"
Michael got to his feet. This was really too much for him. "Kristen, remember those sacred vows. That half-defrocked Boer gave us a pretty traditional variety. You
promised to obey your husband, I'm afraid. Terribly incorrect politically. But that's what you said. So, you ask Serrin when he gets back; I know him even less well than you do. For now, girl, keep quiet and let me get back to work." He wagged an admonishing finger at her in fun; she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders.