by Tim Waggoner
"What do you know about veinburn?"
"It's a relatively new drug, very powerful, created by a fusion of magic and science. It's effective on all of Nekropolis's species, with the exception of the completely dead, such as zombies and ghosts." He paused. "Since you're the city's only self-willed zombie, I have no idea whether it would affect you or not. It would be interesting to find out, wouldn't it?"
"After what happened to Varma, I think I'll just say no, if you don't mind. Who's making the stuff?"
"The Dominari is distributing veinburn. But the drug itself is made by the Arcane."
Arcane? That meant: "Talaith."
Gregor's head bobbled, his version of a nod, I suspect. "And the plants which are used to make veinburn are cultivated in Glamere."
"That's surprising," Devona said. "I wouldn't expect Talaith to use technology, not after what Matt told me about how she demands her people practice pure, natural magic – and especially with what happened with the Overmind."
"Times change," I said. "And the Darklords will do anything to gain an advantage over each other – including abandoning their principles. Assuming they ever had any in the first place." I suddenly recalled who Devona's father was. "Sorry."
"Don't be, you're right; even Father might be persuaded to set aside his hatred of technology if he thought it was to his advantage." She thought a moment. "Could the Hidden Light be mixed up in this somehow? After all, they manage to smuggle holy items into Nekropolis. Perhaps they also bring in technology."
I answered before Gregor could. "Doubtful. The members of the Hidden Light are capable of a lot of things, but working closely with Darkfolk isn't one of them. They have a deep aversion to associating with those of a supernatural persuasion."
"Then why do they deal with you?" she asked.
"Because I was killed while foiling one of Talaith's plots. They view me not as a monster so much as a victim of a Darklord's evil." I turned to Gregor. "What do you think? Could the Hidden Light be in on this?"
"I must concur with your assessment, Matthew," he said. "The Hidden Light has always worked alone in the past."
That settled, I returned to my original line of questioning. "Do you know where The Dominari have their lab set up?"
"Somewhere in the Sprawl, I believe, but the exact location is unknown to me." Gregor's mandibles clicked together once, twice, an action I think was intended to substitute for a smile. "The Dominari may not be Darklords, but their protective spells are still quite formidable."
"I don't suppose you know who Varma's veinburn connection was."
"Actually, I do, or at least, I have a suspicion. The only veinburn dealer I'm aware of is a demon named Morfran who works out of the Sprawl."
I frowned. "Only one dealer? That doesn't make any sense. It's not like the Dominari to work on so small a scale."
"I have the impression they've been field-testing veinburn," Gregor said, "trying to get the formula just right."
"I suppose." Still, it didn't sound like the Dominari's style. Like the criminal organizations back on Earth, they always went for the money, and they weren't exactly known for their patience. "Can you think of anyone in particular who would gain from stealing the Dawnstone?"
"You're asking me to theorize. You know how much I dislike doing so in the absence of facts. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would say someone who wished to harm Lord Galm – or perhaps even Father Dis. And in all likelihood, that would be another Darklord."
"Talaith," Devona said. "Relations between my father and Talaith might be cordial at the moment, but they haven't always been so. And if Talaith is behind the creation of veinburn–"
"She could have gotten Varma hooked on the stuff, and used his addiction as leverage to get him to steal the Dawnstone for her," I finished. "It certainly seems to fit. No wonder she was ready for us when we tried to cross her domain. Augury, my dead ass. One of her people probably saw us asking around about Varma in the Sprawl and alerted her that we were investigating the Dawnstone's theft and figured there was a good chance we'd consult Gregor."
"And the Red Tide?" Devona asked. "They came after us after we'd visited Waldemar – long before anyone could've been aware of what we were doing."
"Maybe Talaith's got an informant in the Cathedral, someone who saw us there."
"Why the Red Tide, then? They hardly seem like the type to work for Talaith."
"Darkgems are darkgems, no matter who pays them to you. And the Red Tide's tech can't come cheap, not when it has to be imported from Earth."
Around us, Gregor's children began getting restless. A sign, I knew, that Gregor himself was becoming bored and was eager to move on to another topic.
"Anything else?" he asked.
"Not that I can think of," I answered.
"Then on to the matter of payment." If there's such a thing as an insect version of a purr, Gregor's words were it.
Before I could respond, Devona stepped in front of me and said, "I'll pay."
"No you won't," I said.
She turned to me, her face set in a determined expression. "You paid Waldemar's price, Lord Edrigu's, and Silent Jack's. It's my turn."
"I could afford to pay them, Devona. I… Papa Chatha gave me some bad news. My body can no longer be preserved by magic. I'll be gone in a couple days, maybe less."
Gregor didn't react; he'd probably already known. But Devona came forward and took my hand.
"I thought your skin looked a little grayer than when we first met, but I told myself it was just my imagination. It wasn't, though, was it?"
I shook my head.
"And you're spending the time you have left helping me." She sounded bemused, as if she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it.
I felt a need to tell her the truth. "My motives aren't unselfish. I was hoping that if we recovered the Dawnstone, you would intercede with Lord Galm on my behalf and ask him to help me make Papa a liar."
"So you haven't given up."
I smiled. "It's not in my nature."
"Then the prices you paid – a page from your life, bearing Edrigu's mark, losing your finger – you paid them even though you still intend to continue living. Uh, existing."
"Yes."
She nodded, as if in understanding, but of what I had no idea. She released my hand and turned back to face Gregor. "I shall pay this time."
"Actually," Gregor said, his antennae quivering as if he could barely contain himself, "since the information I've provided may benefit both of you – Devona, by helping recover the Dawnstone, and Matthew, by providing a chance to avoid discorporation – you must both pay."
"What?" Devona nearly shouted, setting Gregor's children to rustling nervously. "That isn't fair!"
Gregor leaned forward, and although nothing else in his attitude changed, I sensed a hint of menace in the motion. "This is my home. Here, I decide what is and isn't fair."
From behind us came a soft whispering, like a distant wave breaking on the beach. I turned to see Gregor's children had left the ceiling and the walls and were massing behind us.
I put a hand on Devona's shoulder. "It's okay. Information is the only coin he deals in."
"Quite so," Gregor affirmed.
Devona sighed. "Very well, then."
I looked behind us; the mound of Gregor's children was growing smaller as they returned to their places.
"Ms. Kanti, you shall pay first." Gregor settled back once more. "As Matthew told you, all that interests me is information. But as I mentioned earlier, there are some places in Nekropolis – only a few, mind you – where my children have a difficult time venturing. Among these places, as I indicated, is the Cathedral. I want you to escort one of my children into Lord Galm's stronghold and then, after a period of precisely one month, escort it out again. You need do nothing else to pay your debt to me."
Devona considered briefly, and then said, "Agreed."
"Excellent." Gregor did or said nothing more, but one of his insects detac
hed itself from the others and scurried up Devona's leg, over her waist and chest, along her neck, across her jawline, and then darted into her ear.
She screamed in pain and clapped her hand to the side of her head. Blood trickled out from between her fingers. She swayed and then fell to her knees.
I went to her and gently pulled her hand away from her ear. I saw no sign of the insect and, thanks to her half-vampire physiology, the wound of its passage was already healing.
"I apologize. I should have made clear what I meant by escort." Gregor chittered softly.
"If you've hurt her–"
"No need for dramatics, Matthew. My child must be hidden inside Ms. Kanti in order to be able to penetrate Lord Galm's wardspells. Despite the initial… unpleasantness of the process, she will not be harmed by hosting my child, and when a month is over, it shall depart and Ms. Kanti's body will heal the minor damage caused by its leave-taking." He rubbed four of his legs together, maybe in anticipation of soon gaining access to a place so long denied him.
"I'm all right, Matt," Devona said, sounding a bit shaky but otherwise unhurt. I helped her to stand. "It feels… odd," she said. "But that's all."
"All right, Gregor," I said. "My turn. Let me guess: you want me to carry one of your little spies too, so in case I do rot away to dust, I can ferry it over to the afterlife with me."
More chittering. "Hardly. You have only to answer one simple question for me, Matthew: how do you feel about being a zombie?"
FIFTEEN
"I don't know what you mean."
"Come now, Matthew, it's a simple enough question. How do you feel about being a zombie?"
"Why do you want to know?"
Gregor chittered loudly. "Why do I want to know anything? Because it is there to be known, because I do not already know. Because by knowing, I can perhaps come to understand."
"Understand what?"
"Everything, of course. But to answer your initial question more specifically, I wish to know because you are one of a kind, the only self-willed zombie in Nekropolis, perhaps the only one that has ever existed. And unlike normal zombies, you are aware and can provide valuable insight into your state of existence."
"I'd like to help you, Gregor, but I don't experience emotions the way I did when I was alive. I'm not sure I have any feelings about being a zombie."
Gregor's mandibles clacked together slowly – tik-tik-tik-tik – a gesture and sound which I'd come to know as a sign that the big bug was losing patience.
"Come now, Matthew. You forget to whom you are speaking. My children have watched you many times since your arrival in Nekropolis. You pretend to help people solely for monetary compensation in order that you might purchase preservative spells. But the lengths you go to in order to help them, the risks you take, indicate a man who is interested in far more than just collecting a paycheck."
"When I take on a job, I do it to the best of my abilities. That's how I am."
"And is that why you chose to help Lyra? She was a spirit, Matthew, and unable to pay you."
"Not true; I got to keep Honani's soul."
"Which you did not know would happen when you decided to aid Lyra. You helped her because you felt sorry for her and because her death filled you with righteous anger and you wanted to make her killer pay. You cannot deny it."
Gregor was right, I couldn't. "So?"
"So that proves you still feel, Matthew. Now answer my question and discharge your debt to me."
I looked at Devona and thought of what she had said to me in the alley where we'd discovered Varma's body. If you don't feel anything, perhaps it doesn't have anything to do with your being a zombie. Perhaps that's who Matthew Richter really is – a man who was dead inside long before he died on the outside.
Had she been right? Was that really who and what I was?
I heard the soft whisper of Gregor's children gathering behind.
"Matt–" Devona said warningly.
"How do I feel, Gregor? Even in Nekropolis I'm an oddity – a freak in a city of freaks – the only walking dead man with a mind of his own. And that mind is trapped in a body that's little more than a numb piece of meat. I can't feel warm or cold, can't feel the wind on my face. Can't smell, can't taste. I'm cut off from the world around me, on the outside of life, looking in and trying to remember what it was like to be a man, to be Matthew Richter, instead of just a pale memory of him.
"And now my undead body's preparing to betray me, getting ready to fall apart like so much overcooked chicken slipping off the bone. And despite my hope that Lord Galm might have the power to restore me and that he might deign to do so if I can help Devona recover the Dawnstone before I rot away completely, I'm still scared that none of it's going to matter, my body will cease to be and my spirit–" I showed the E on my palm to Gregor. "I suppose Lord Edrigu will get that."
I lowered my hand. "You want to know how it feels to be me, Gregor? Right now, it well and truly sucks. Satisfied?"
Gregor slumped against the wall, legs curled across his abdomen and stroking it slowly with a faint rustling sound as of a mass of dry twigs being rubbed together. His attitude was that of a someone who has just had a very large and very good meal. Or great sex.
"Extremely. Thank you, Matthew. And good luck on your dual quests to locate the Dawnstone and discover a way to avoid your impending dissolution. I truly hope you succeed. Nekropolis is a far more interesting place with you inhabiting it."
I felt humiliated at having been forced to bare my soul for Gregor's amusement, and that Devona had been a witness. "I hope your next visitor is a very big can of sentient bug spray."
I turned to go, and Devona followed. Together, we walked up the temporarily insect-free stairs, Gregor's chittering laughter following us all the way.
We walked through the dilapidated streets of the Boneyard in silence for a time after that. The wraith images of the domain's inhabitants seemed to be sharper now, maybe because we'd moved further into the Boneyard, or maybe we were just getting used to them. A few tried to talk with us, but they made no sound, at least none we could hear, and after several moments of attempting to communicate by gesture, they gave up and drifted away.
When Devona finally spoke, she said, "What do we do now?" No mention of my embarrassing little scene back in Gregor's basement, for which I was quite grateful.
"We have several possible avenues of investigation at this point. We could try to find Morfran, the demon veinburn dealer; we could try to locate the drug lab the Arcane and the Dominari have set up in the Sprawl; or we could try to learn who hired the Red Tide vampires that killed Varma and tried to kill us."
As if on cue, a crimson mist rolled forth from a nearby sewer grate.
"No need to bust your rotting ass looking for us, zombie," Narda's voice drifted forth from the vermilion cloud. "We're right here."
The fog dissipated to reveal Narda, Enan, and the Giggler.
Enan raised his right hand. The fingers blurred and shifted, becoming five large hypodermic needles, the points glistening with liquid veinburn. He grinned. "Time to plug and play, Deadboy."
The vampiric trio looked the worse for wear since last I'd seen them, but not as much as I'd expected. There were still traces of burns on their faces and hands, but the worst injuries had been covered by patches of what appeared to be blue rubber that seemed to have bonded to their skin. Narda's missing eye hadn't regenerated; rather, in its place was a camera lens which protruded several inches from the socket. Their tech bodysuits, which had been short-circuiting as they fled from us in Gothtown, had been repaired, but sloppily – exposed wires, mismatched parts, metallic glops from hurried soldering. The suits sparked here and there, and the power hum was overloud and sounded a bit strained. I imagined the air contained the faint hot metal and plastic smell of machinery working too hard.
"The Boneyard isn't exactly your normal stomping grounds," I said. "How'd you find us?"
"We want to find someone, they're good as f
ound," Narda said.
"You can't hide from the Tide," Enan added.
The Giggler giggled. Big surprise.
"What's with the blue gunk?" I asked. "New fashion statement?"
"Plaskin," Enan said. "Helps burns heal faster – even for Bloodborn – but they still hurt like a bitch." He gnashed his fangs, and his eyes blazed with anger. "But not as much as you're going to hurt before we finish you."
The Giggler lived up to his nickname once again, and I decided now was not the time to point out that my body was incapable of feeling any sensation, including pain. It would just make them more determined – and inventive.