Ecko Burning

by Danie Ware

  “Lost,” Roderick said calmly.

  Lugan pulled the Manhunter, coughed to cover the hammer, held it low.

  And it was whisked from him, caught with a length of fishing line.

  Slightly sticky fishing line.

  Jesus.

  The crash came. He slammed into the tarmac, skidded into the realisation: they were trapped in here, no exits, no comms. Only when they missed the 2:33 failsafe check-in...

  Panic!

  Suddenly scared to the soles of his boots, he bit down on the violence that screamed beneath his skin, begging for release in a demand for freedom, a detonation of righteous anger.

  You’re not human.

  Then he sensed something directly before him, something significantly bigger than his own six foot four. Something metal-cold.

  The tech said, “Give him to me, Lugan. Please.” Her voice was an irresistible girlish flirt. It shivered round in his head with the knowledge of her sadism, the atrocities she’d committed. She’d flayed Ecko alive, for fuck’s sake, eaten his eyes right out of their sockets.

  Mom.

  “’E’s not mine to give, luv.” He was still crouched, ready to go for the heavy, carbon-fibre boot-knife. “An’ that ain’t why we’re ’ere. We’re lookin’ -”

  “Give him to me, Lugan,” the tech said, “and I’ll answer your questions. All of them.” Her breath was sweet, eager, like spring. “You want to ID your friend? That’s easy. You want to know Tarquinne Gabriel’s agenda? That’s a little harder. You want to know what assails Collator? That’s almost a challenge.” She laughed, high and sparkling, like water. “Ask me anything, Lugan. I’m the soul and the memory; I’m the creator and the crafter. I’m mother and lover. The world seethes round and through me. I’m the fountain of all knowledge.”

  Oh, you’re kidding...

  His heart crystallised and shattered. He was a rat in a maze, helpless, manipulated. He knew what was coming - he was turning, trying to speak, trying to deny the absolutely fucking inevitable...

  “I need that knowledge, more than I have words to frame.” Roderick’s voice was an impassioned thrum, his boots scraped as he moved. “I fear not your darkness, be it in your mind or in your heart. Perhaps I too, can strike a trade with you - my Tundran blood for your comprehension. My knowledge for yours.”

  It was like a meeting of worlds - like fucking destiny had just smacked him one, straight up the side of the head.

  Are you fuckin’... Lugan found his voice, tried again. “Are you fuckin’ barkin’?” Destiny, for fucksake, this was getting out of hand. “D’you know what she did to Ecko? D’you have any fucking clue...?”

  “Yes.” The word hovered in the darkness like a moth waiting for the light. “Lugan, I have done nothing for far too long. Your knowledge is vast, critical, its speed impossible - it defies everything I have ever believed.” A hand gripped his shoulder, a brother, a plea. “Your powerflux - your ‘net’ - is everything I have ever wanted to be. This is my responsibility, the charge and dream I have carried since I was a child. I am a Guardian of the Ryll. I must understand - I must have your lore. And I must take that learning home.”

  “Fuller can give you a web-link anytime.” Why did the sentence sound so trite? “Rick, look, mate -”

  “Lugan, please.” The hand gripped harder. “It is as if the Count of Time himself brought me here. All these pieces have fitted into place like steps of stone - eternal. We have come for a reason. I must understand your powerflux.” Harder still, then let him go. “If I can take this home, if I can remember,” the word was pure passion, “I can save my world. Would you not do the same?”

  Would you not do the same?

  Pilgrim. Corporate control, pharmaceutical control. London, great city now soulless, rotting from the inside.

  The bloke was a fucking loony - but he had more guts than Mr Creosote.

  “I wish I could, mate.” The naïveté of it made him chuckle, wry and almost saddened. “But it ain’t ever that fuckin’ simple.”

  “Ecko believes it is,” Roderick said. His faith was blind, resolute, untouchable. “It seems suitable that I visit his mother in order to help my own.”

  Something dropped in Lugan’s thoughts - an old penny, tumbling finally down through an arcade maze.

  Not human. Your DNA really isn’t fucking human.

  You - the tavern - it’s all fucking real.

  Mental brakes squealed as he stopped to look at the thought. Real. Fucking destiny.

  You’re ’aving a laugh.

  Then he snorted. Jesus Harry Christ, I reckon Tarquinne drugged that fucking needle after all. I’m gonna wake up in a minute with one bitch of an’ ’angover.

  “Such idealism.” The tech sighed like a shimmer, enticing. “My hatchlings have dreams - dreams I build.” In the darkness, Roderick shuddered. “Tell me what you want - and let me make it happen. If you survive, nothing will ever frighten you again.”

  “I want...” For a moment, the Bard’s voice broke, whether in fear, Lugan couldn’t tell. “I went to the Council of Nine and they did not heed me. I need to wake the world. I need to make her people listen.”

  “The throat you have isn’t enough?” Her sparkling laugh, chill as ice-water. “I’ll give you a new voice, hatchling, a cry to bring down the very sky. Thera,” the last words rang with dismal finality, “secure him.”

  “Voice?” The Bard’s question was a breath, a tremor. “How will I -?”

  “Don’t worry, child. By the time it’s yours to wield, you’ll know it... intimately.” She gave a final, shimmering laugh. “Stand down, my sister. As promised, I’ll answer Lugan’s questions. And let him go safely.

  “Before I install Khamsin.”

  * * *

  “You did what?” In the odd light of the tavern taproom, Karine stood in a too-brief night garment, hands on hips, outrage shouting from her skin.

  Lugan dropped onto a bench with a solid thump.

  “’E volunteered. Offered ’is blood to Save the World.” He fully expected to be whacked with a frying pan any second. “’Ow’s your bouncer?”

  Fuller? You awake? Get your arse down ’ere!

  “Sera’s mending fine and don’t you change the subject.” Karine jabbed a furious fingertip. “You prove to me, mush, you didn’t sell him out to buy information and I won’t kick your sorry arse up one side of this room and down the other.”

  Lugan eyed her state of dress, thought better of the obvious response. Instead, he stood up, shed jacket and cut-down, pulled his tee over his head and turned round.

  “There’s a picture in your skin.” Karine didn’t sound impressed.

  He turned back, massive bodybuilder frame earning him a sceptical, half-raised eyebrow.

  “I don’t betray me mates.” His voice was stone.

  What? Fuller sounded sleepy. What’s up?

  In the pub. You know which one. Get down ’ere.

  “Put your clothes back on,” Karine said. “You’re not impressing anybody.”

  On my way, Fuller said. Ten minutes. Put the kettle on, will you? This’d better be good to get me out of bed at four in the morning. Why can’t you do this over the link?

  Quit whingin’ and get down ’ere!

  All right, all right. Coming.

  Lugan picked up his tee, pulled it back on, realised it was inside out, swore.

  “I’m fucking knackered,” he commented. “But I got us some light - I know ’ow we find Ecko.”

  “And how we get home?” Karine’s question was almost a plea. He looked at her for a moment - in the half-light she was suddenly vulnerable, very young.

  “I dunno, luv,” he grinned at her, wryly amused. “I still dunno if you’re even ’ere at all.”

  * * *

  They sat in the taproom, patches of fluorescent light spilling through tiny mica panes. Steam curled gently from the mouth of the herbal jug, smoke from the dog-end between Lugan’s lips.

  A grey-and-white
cat prowled uneasily, sniffing at corners.

  “Collator’s still skewed,” Fuller said. “It’s responsive but the probabilities are way off. I’ve bypassed the building security feeds, they’re straight to my flatscreen. We’re good.”

  “You know this is all fuckin’ ’atstand,” Lugan said. “Maybe I am just trippin’ me nuts off.”

  “I feel fine,” Fuller told him.

  “Yeah, but I could be ’allucinating you too.” He blew a smoke-filled shrug, took another drag. “Still, best get the fuck on with it. Trip or no, it ain’t gonna fix itself.”

  Karine grinned. “You’re the soul of practicality. Herbal?”

  “Awright.” He shoved a leather mug across the table.

  Fuller said, Recording... now.

  “Friday 12th April, ’bout 2 a.m., Ecko buggered off the roof of Grey’s base on the South Bank. ’E never ’it the floor. ’E fell through an ’ole in reality, and wound up in ’ere - where ’e went on some mission to save your world.” His sarcasm was unavoidable. “Seems to be an ’abit with you people. Anyway, that’s the easy bit.”

  “It’s not impossible, Luge,” Fuller said. “Over a million people a year vanish without trace. Crater, Earhart, Rockefeller. In 2017, Mark Domesday left his own gig and never arrived backsta-”

  “Shut up!” Annoyed, Lugan stubbed out his dog-end, smearing soot on the tabletop. “In Ecko’s skin, there’re tracers - semi-passive, short streams of numbers at pre-set intervals. Their frequency rotates, but we can follow ’em. They geo-plot ’is location an’ predict ’is next move. Simple.” He threw a small, smart-nerved receiver into Fuller’s startled hands. “The numbers’ll give us ’is bio-rhythms - ’ow ’e’s doin’, when ’e’s asleep...” He shrugged away the end of the sentence, reached for another dog-end. “I’m bettin’ my fuckin’ Shovel ’ead those numbers are still comin’ from Grey’s base. I wanna know what the ’ell went down in there.”

  Fuller inspected the device; a tiny LED winked back at him, teasing.

  “The Philadelphia experiment, apparently.”

  Lugan glowered. “Fuller, I want Strafe and ’Eels after Gabriel. Get ’er scrawny corporate arse back in ’ere - let’s find out if she’s a part of this. Tell ’em to behave - she’s a Big Fucking Noise and it ain’t gonna be an easy job.”

  “Sure.”

  “Get Eliza on Collator. It’s caught the clap - some kinda super-Trojan, still no clue what the fucker’s carryin’. Nutshell: virused to ’ell. Quarantine it ’til Eliza can get ’er ’ead round what the fuck’s the matter.”

  “Was semi-quarantined anyway, it’s too vulnerable.”

  “And?” Karine’s voice was blade-sharp. “What about the Bard?”

  “God fuckin’ save me from starry-eyed idealists.” Lugan shook his head, stuck the dog-end between his lips, lit it.

  Shut the recordin’ down a minute, will ya?

  Done.

  Squinting through smoke-tails, he said, “If ’e survives, ’e’ll come back. And you’d best be ’ere to meet ’im.”

  Silence fell heavy like a metal coin, rolled across the table.

  Smoke curled in the air.

  “Survives?” Karine’s expression had congealed. “You didn’t say...” Suddenly businesslike, she stood up with a scrape of bench, started collecting mugs. “You murder Silfe, you injure Sera, you abandon Kale, you hand Roderick over like some cursed fruit basket. You fill my air with that stink, you burn holes in my table.” Her voice cracked. Furious, she flicked the extinguished dog-end at his chest. “I don’t even know why we’re here...”

  Lugan pinched out the butt he was smoking, dropped it back in his pocket.

  “Me either, luv. ’E’s stronger than ’e looks, your bossman. ’E might talk like a big girl’s blouse but -”

  Luge... Fuller audio-nudged him, and he fell silent.

  The hard line of Karine’s mouth shook. For a moment, she fought it, inhaling a determined hiss of air through gritted teeth. Then that air emerged as a sob. Mugs scattered across the floor as her shoulders slumped, rounded and shook. She buried her face in her hands.

  Lugan shuffled his boots.

  “He has to come back.” The words were muffled, hopeless. “He has to come back. And we have to go home. Please... can’t you go and get him... please... We’re all so lost..!”

  Luge, say something...

  “I’m sorry, luv.” Uncomfortably helpless, Lugan patted her arm, but she shook him off, temper flashing from tear-lined eyes.

  “Don’t patronise me.”

  “We’re all in the same bo-”

  “No, we’re not! You haven’t lost your world! You don’t choke on the air you breathe - you’re not a prisoner, a purposeless prisoner, in something you used to love. The tavern’s broken, it— it’s not meant to be here. If we can’t get home, The Wanderer will die.”

  “Fan-fuckin’-tastic.” Frustrated, Lugan slammed a boot into the table and sent it skidding over, jug splashing into a dark stain on the floor. He came to his feet, shadow looming. “Look, I didn’t send you people a fucking invite. Anytime you wanna try sortin’ this out yourselves - and gettin’ the fuck out my chop shop - is good with me.”

  Karine rounded on him, snarling through tears, “It’s not my fault, don’t -!”

  “I don’t fucking care whose fault it is!” Lugan was thundering now, his temper barely in check. He was fighting to control a lunatic situation he’d no way to understand and he’d passed “enough” three stops back. How the fucking hell had this insanity all become his responsibility?

  His roar brought him wide-eyed quiet. The cat, unperturbed, was washing.

  Ah, Luge? You okay?

  With an effort, he grabbed his temper by the throat and choked the shit out of it.

  “What d’you mean, The Wanderer will die?” His words were measured, tightly controlled. “If this is some kinda threat...”

  “Two things can’t occupy the same space. It’s why The Wanderer’s cursed to jump - place unto place, rootless, ’til the end of the Count of Time.” Karine sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Here, it’s caught. Snagged. And it’ll disintegrate. Or you will.”

  Or you will.

  “You’re pullin’ my fuckin’ chain.” Lugan leaned down to pick up the herbal jug, scuffed his boot in the stain on the floor. “Seems like we got ourselves a deadline,” he said. He looked around him for a moment, almost as if he expected to see the walls of the taproom warp or fade. “Fuller, best time to case Grey’s base - the sooner the better. We need to ’ave a little word with the good doc.”

  PART 3: DESIGN

  16: FEAR AEONA

  Ecko drifted through layers of consciousness.

  “...interesting case.” The voice was male, faintly familiar, though he couldn’t place it. His head seemed clouded with a hangover of smoke and doubt. His body was heavy enough to sink into softness beneath him. “He was very deep, it’s taken some effort to bring him back.”

  “Sure.” The answer was clipped, female. Something about it sparked sudden alarm, deep but potent, a bright thread of awareness. Ecko held himself still, trying to wake up properly without giving himself away.

  The air smelled faintly of old food, of...

  Shit.

  I know that smell.

  The memory hit him hard, a slap that brought him awake with a hollow rush of horror, a rise of tension that made the awareness in him flare to sudden life. He kept still with some effort, but the voice above him chuckled.

  “Seems our Mister Gabriel is waking - his ‘mom’ certainly crafted him some tricks. Sal, would you mind?”

  Ecko felt the grasp of a hand, a pinprick in his wrist, felt the warmth begin to spread through his skin, up his arm, to lull him into that wonderful, easy feeling of contentment -

  Oh no you fuckin’ don’t!

  His adrenaline coughed, stumbled into life like it was exhausted, but it was enough, and the warmth began to recede. He struggled to sit
, swaying but upright, eyes blinking at the man who stood before him, at the woman, at the tiny, familiar, room...

  Oh no. Nonononono...

  Denial clamoured, pointless.

  It was a bolt-hole, a shit-hole. A corporate fucking special. It was familiar as childhood, as recurring nightmare. It was bed and wardrobe and console, the waiting world of anywhere-but-here. It was a mug of coffee; it was furred mould. Every part of this room was the same as the last time he’d seen it.

  When he’d burned its occupant alive.

  The memory brought its own adrenaline, a real rush this time, and he was down from the bed, on his feet and starting to rally, to fight back. Shapeless fury battered the lassitude that swelled through his body. The man - by every fucking God the man! - was tall, black hair in a ponytail, the sleeves of his white coat rolled up to reveal the needle marks that tracked the insides of his elbows. The woman was small, blonde, hatchetfaced. She had a small, folded-stock rifle against her shoulder.

  Doctor Slater Grey.

  Salva.

  “Easy.” Grey was smiling, holding out a nicotine-stained hand. “It’s all right, Tam. I understand - but it’s all over, now, it’s all over. You’re back, we’ve taken the ’trodes away. I understand you’re confused, but nothing can hurt you, not while you’re in here. Take a minute, and relax.”

  I understand you’re confused...

  He’d heard those words before, felt this massive sense of disorientation, seen the light glimmer from a long, black ponytail. All of this had a familiarity that felt like déjà-vu, like he’d already fucking been here...

  Confused? You got five seconds to tell me what’s what or I start breakin’ shit!

  “What the hell did you put in my vein, you fucker? What was that? What’ve you done to me?” Ecko made a clumsy grab for the man’s white coat. He had a headful of uproar, endless questions tumbling one over another, but the swell of softness in his body was rising again, making him fall back. It rid him of words, of concepts, of understanding; it made him want to give up, to drift into apathy, into the grey and emotionless emptiness that brought relief from all things.