CrossTown

by Loren W. Cooper

  I reached for a pack of cigarettes. The wind had changed, or it had a lousy sense of self-control, since I had just gotten a whiff of something sour and fetid. “I’d rather not,” I said mildly as I lit the cigarette from an arc dancing between my fingers.

  It took a step toward me, moving with delicacy and natural, predatory grace. “Are you so eager to die, then?”

  I took a puff and rolled my eyes. “Look, let’s get on with it, shall we? You’re here to kill me. I’m here to keep that from happening. Wanna dance?”

  I think I offended its sense of propriety. Whatever else it was, it certainly didn’t seem very bright and it had been clinging to a formula.

  It charged in silence, moving with the kind of flickering speed that almost made me pay for my irresistible desire to bait the opposition. I stumbled backward, toward the river, dropping and rolling as it leapt through the space I had just occupied. It sailed past me and landed half in the water. I dove at it as it turned, hitting it about belly height.

  I fell into the embrace of what felt like everything from arms to tentacles. I locked us into our destination as the current pulled us downstream. Claws ripped at a thin barrier of force held in place by Bright Angel, as my will built a barrier against a swirling psychic attack. It had strength, viciousness, and power in plenty, but I was gambling that it didn’t leave its regular haunts all that often.

  Some inhabitants of CrossTown have more tolerance for wild environments than others. And I don’t mean the usual vacuum/hard radiation/distorted gravity environments. In many of those, if you’re prepared, you’re fine, and if you’re not, you’re dead. Those environments won’t change you, they’ll just kill you.

  I had something less pleasant in mind.

  I took my snarling adversary to a place where the self, the soul, the ka, the complex of the ego/superego/id, the “I”ness of the individual, manifested itself, while the body vanished. In that place the senses changed. I translated what I perceived into something I could handle—a visual and tactile metaphor.

  Each self could be perceived as a liquid in suspension of another liquid, a self held within an all-pervading self like the soul of the universe. In that greater self, the soul had two choices: become a tightly contained sphere, or dissolve, lose cohesion, and mix in with that overwhelming, all-pervading self.

  Kabbalists describe the Sephiroth, the worlds of creation, as bubbles floating in the mind of God. I became my own Sephirah, holding within me the many smaller spheres of the members of my Legion. Through that I could see the milky web of something else spreading through my Legion like cancer. For the first time, I could see the problem brewing within, and it was like nothing I had ever encountered before. I wanted to trace that web back to the spider that spun it, but I had other problems.

  Beyond my periphery, I sensed the stretching, twisting geometry of my shadowy hunter. A constellation held together by the chains of a powerful will, it had clung to me during transit and had begun to mount an attack on the borders of my Legion.

  Instead of resisting, I pulled my sentries back. My attacker followed eagerly. The Legion pulled back further. More of my assailant rushed into the gap. Some small members of the Legion fell under the rising tide of the opposition, fighting furiously before sinking into isolation for later digestion. I fed my attacker memories I could afford to lose as well, parting reluctantly even with such small parts of my life as closing a bathroom door, or waiting in the cold of a stone antechamber on my master’s pleasure, or inventorying cockatrice tongues. My assailant took the bait, plunging further after the retreating line of the Legion, until the bulk of it had passed beyond the extending wings of the fiercest members. The two wings, led on the right by Bright Angel and on the left by Bane, closed behind the shadow creature’s attack and completed an englobement of its forces.

  The retreating front of my Legion suddenly stiffened, Blade at the fore. I drove my will into the center of my enemy’s mass like a falling hammer. The NightTown creature’s personality shattered like glass. I took the mass deeper into the thunderous tides of that place, where I let the power of the Way work with my forces to extend our advantage as we freed the few small ones who had fallen early. Together we consumed the essence of the shadow creature’s self.

  Parts of the creature’s essence slid through mine, as the Legion crushed every last piece of resistance. I sorted through the fragments of my assailant’s self, trying to find its memories. As I moved and assimilated, my Legion accompanied me, feeding like remora on the flotsam and jetsam that I ignored.

  It was a little power in its own right, a thing of the dark Fae, a Shadow Hound and a Hunter, an old weapon in forgotten wars roused from its slumber and sent hunting. This had been no chance encounter. Though I could not identify the one who had sent it in the wreckage of its memories, the Faerie linkage gave me strong circumstantial evidence. Titania was not content to rely on Fetch alone.

  As I studied its memories, riffling through them like a pick-pocket with a freshly stolen wallet, a reference to the Wild Hunt stirred my own memories. “I am of the Wild Hunt, Blood and Bone,” it had told me. Another had used a similar phrase—the Jigsaw Man, Vincent’s ghost, had also spoken those words. They were brothers, these two, paired weapons with a clear maker’s mark. Titania had been hunting me even before she had set Fetch on my trail. But again, I didn’t understand the need for the charade when Fetch had taken me to Faerie. Had she feared the Tindalans so much? They were alien to the Fae, but she had so much power at her command. Or had it been a matter of timing? Had she been weakened in her attack on Corvinus?

  If it had been Titania. I had no hard proof, but doubt was fading fast. And if it had been, I still didn’t understand her motive.

  “Is it safe?” the White Wolf asked, “to take this one as well? The infection in your Legion spreads even now. The last member of the Wild Hunt surely lies at the root of that problem.”

  I let him sense my own bitter amusement. “I’m certainly not letting him go. And last time I let you feed, someone was sloppy. This one I’ll take myself.”

  The White Wolf drew back as I pierced the last defense of the heart of my enemy, and drew forth the dark, savory core of its power. I fed on that power, consuming it as the Legion churned below me, snapping up pieces of memory and personality drifting in the currents of that place.

  Later, once I had fully encompassed the last of the Shadow Hound, I slid free of that place at last, stepping comfortably back into the familiar restriction of my body. I had with me the faintest slip of an apparition, a manifestation of the power that had stood at the heart of the dark Hound. Its appetite had been relentless, consuming, a bottomless well of hunger. As I came out into the dim light of a back alley in the port of DeepTown, all that remained of the Hound hid in my shadow. The vast cavern that cradled the trading community burned with countless points of light, holding back the return of the patient darkness.

  The Shadow Hound had become nothing more than a small, mewling, weak ripple of shapeless power, a mindless movement of distant hunger. I trapped that last restless trace of power in my shadow, binding it easily while its resistance was broken. When my shadow faded, the power faded; and when my shadow grew dark, its strength grew. But the Shadow Hound had no self left to it. I had taken that. The strength that remained had become an extension of my will.

  I thought about the infection I had seen spreading through the Legion in a web of pestilent influence. I knew that something would have to be done. I didn’t need to call up the White Wolf or Blade to feel their agreement. Bright Angel’s passion burned like a thousand watch fires at the towers of the fortress of my soul. What I had seen attacked the very natures of the individual members of the Host, something I had always left alone. That disturbed them deeply, and left them all hunting, one through the other, for the source of the infection. Though the Legion roiled unsteadily within me, I took this for a good sign. Perhaps they could deal with it independently. Perhaps they would root out t
he infection without my supervision.

  I didn’t have the time to deal with it in any event.

  I called on Shaper, once again pulled the distasteful cloak of age over myself, left the alley, and set my feet on the main thoroughfare of DeepTown. I needed to come up to where the Wraith made his abode. From there I would hit Corvinus’s workshop, which happened to be in the vicinity.

  CHAPTER XV

  MANY OF DeepTown’s avenues were waterways, stretching between buildings built on the flat-topped cones of huge stalagmites thrusting up out of the dark, fathomless waters of the inner sea, sometimes on pilings that stretched down to anchor to deeper stalagmites. Above, lines of light from hanging bridges snaked across the distant roof of the cavern, casting pale reflections into the dark waters. The main thoroughfare consisted of a floating causeway that cut through the center of Deep-Town and ran out to the suburbs and through the nearest wall of the great cavern that harbored the inner sea. I avoided that Road, preferring to snake my way through side streets and along swinging footpaths.

  The crowd around me stank of fish or money, the former the more honest scent. DeepTown, like most of the other areas of CrossTown, thrived on trade. Anything could be found in the markets and on the wharves of DeepTown, including some things that could not be found elsewhere. Considering that and the various hunters and traps that sought my blood recently, I stopped in a small shop set between two large import houses, its wooden doors marked by a single, curious sigil.

  I pushed through the thin wooden outer doors and walked past the open, armored inner doors and into the shop, which seemed much larger than it had from the outside. Knives, swords, and other bladed weapons of all conceivable sizes and shapes covered the walls. Racked out from the walls stood long arms—some recognizable, some not.

  The man who met me in the middle of the floor of that first room wore a plain, gray uniform, which matched his skin, hair, and eyes. “What do you need?”

  “A great many things,” I told him briskly. “But I’m in this place for a weapon.”

  He nodded abruptly. “This is the right place. Powered or not?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I need something that disables machines.”

  “Damage to organics or not?”

  “Nothing lethal to organics, I think.”

  “Ranged or not?”

  “Ranged, preferably.”

  “Capacity?”

  “At least five shots. Reusable. Reloadable. And I’ll need additional ammunition.”

  “Concealable or not?”

  “Concealable.”

  “Price range?”

  “Reasonable.”

  “I have three weapons in mind that will fit your needs.” The shopkeeper turned, and I followed him deeper into the shop. He stopped before a large rack of handguns of various shapes and sizes, and picked up a large unit with a bulbous head at the business end. “Pulsegun. Focused electromagnetic pulse. Fires in a cone, strongest near the weapon, broadest coverage at the far extent of the range. Effective range fifty meters. Largest diameter of the cone approximately two meters. Some advanced shielding will diminish or eliminate the effect. Fifty shots per rechargeable clip. No immediate damage to organics. No Cross-TerPol interdiction. Five silver.”

  He turned, led me deeper into the room, stopping to pick up a thick cylinder about a foot and a half long. “Multi-strand Power Whip. Effective range three meters. Area of effect three cubic meters. Ten minutes of continuous use before needing a recharge. Power arcs will fry most electronics, takes longer on certain shielding. Lethal to most unprotected organics. Limited CrossTerPol interdiction. One gold.”

  He turned again, led me yet deeper, and stopped before a glass aquarium. I looked in at a thick layer of mud, and saw the surface twitch. “Power lampreys?”

  “Not a personal device.” He stooped, opened the cabinet under the aquarium, and pulled out a pouch filled with round objects the size of marbles. He poured several into his hand, and I saw mottled, gray spheres with irregular, creased surfaces. “Spores. Dormant form of driller worm colony. Driller worm is a smaller cousin of the power lamprey. Works against machines with an electromagnetic power source only. Harmless to organics. Must be thrown or placed within one meter proximity of a powered machine. Depending on configuration of target, may result in some delay before target is rendered harmless. High level of CrossTerPol interdict in certain districts. Carrying driller worm spores in TechTown is a capital offense. Three bags for one silver.”

  I hesitated. “How much to exchange funds through the central billing location?”

  “Price doubles,” he responded without hesitation.

  “Done. I’ll take three bags.” I recorded my permission for the exchange with him. He completed the transaction through the central billing location for the weapon shops. I had no doubt that any transaction I made would be traced by someone through the Bank of Hours. All they would have to do is pay the fee. By making the transaction through the weapon shop’s central location, they would be able to determine the general nature of my purchase with ease, but my location and the specifics would be more difficult. That degree of anonymity was well worth the additional cost.

  I tucked my dormant worms into separate pouches on my belt for easy access and exited back out to the thoroughfare. I felt better about any machine ambushes, and as long as I stayed away from the anchored WanderWays I would be fine for virtually anything else. I disappeared back into the cavernous depths of a path between two looming buildings and touched the possibilities of the Road. It took me a snaking Way, up and around and over, until I came to walk amidst a jungle of twisted seaweed strands far above DeepTown, following a path leading into one of the upper entrances of the caverns.

  Bats glared down at me from where they hung on the supports of the rope bridges, but I received no second looks from passersby, even though straight human stock seemed to be a minority in that place. I did see plenty of bodymod types, most adapted for the water, others for flight—wings or fins or gills, or long, articulated limbs flattened and streamlined for swimming all made the bodymods obvious. Those were the backbone of DeepTown; the ones who wouldn’t or couldn’t absorb the price of the inflated real estate below, but who commuted in for a quick copper or for the pleasures of the deep.

  I pushed my way through the crowd and into the mouth of the caverns, where the traffic lapsed a bit. Smooth granite passages embraced me, lit by blue-green luminescent strips running at waist and ankle height. I traveled more swiftly at that point, snaking along the long single Road of the intertwining corridors on a ripple of possibility.

  I stopped before an opaque archway; the space under the arch filled with something darker than the surrounding stone. I touched the shadow under the arch and it rippled into motion. The face of an old man formed in the smoky substance, sneering at me. “Zethus. What do you want?”

  I gave him my best, delicate irony. “Alistair MacWraith, as delightful as ever. I need to talk to you.”

  He seemed unimpressed. “So? Why should I spare the time?”

  “For Corvinus.”

  He paused. “You are a bastard. Come in.”

  The smoky barrier faded to light. I stooped under the arch and stepped into a domed room. Recalling the numerous strange artifacts and machinations the Wraith collected, I paused to leave my coat and the driller worm spores in the ante-chamber. From that room, I came into a technosage’s workshop. Odd devices had been strung together all over the open expanse of the floor. The ones I recognized ranged from a teletype to several models of home computer, some extremely advanced, some extremely primitive. Banks of larger machines enclosed the crowded space and extended some distance into the darkness. In the center of this space, in separate cases with lines and cables leading to and from them, stood some objects not usually associated with technology, such as stones for geomancy, bones for osteomancy, one fanged skull the size of a pony, a cracked plastic Ouija board, and no fewer than three perfect spheres, each a bit larger
than a man’s head—one made of clear crystal, one polished to mirror reflectivity, and one that reflected no light.

  In the midst of those three spheres stood a table and chair, a tower of sparks dancing before the chair. As I entered the room, the pinpoints of light curled together and drew upright into the form of a tall man with a stern face. “Zethus. What do you want from me?”

  I went straight for the throat. “You knew Corvinus had died. Did you know that he had been murdered?”

  “I didn’t know that anyone knew for sure that he had been murdered. Did you kill him, to possess such certainty?” he asked offensively.

  “I thought you knew him better than that.”

  He simulated a sigh. “You do have a way of cutting to the heart of the matter. No, I don’t think that you’re responsible. What did you come here for?”

  I stepped closer. At proximity, the illusion crumbled; the Wraith’s form trembled with the individual motions of the millions of tiny photoelectric animals that made up his (its) corporeal self, and housed his (its) collective intelligence. The Wraith had always exhibited the form and personality of a crotchety old man to me, though not for the purpose of concealing his condition. “Did you know what Corvinus was working on? Emerantha Pale gave me the news. She wanted me to take shelter in the loving arms of the Union. But she also told me that Corvinus was working on something that might have gotten him killed. She insinuated that I knew more than I do. I came to you to see what more you might be able to tell me.”

  “One of Pale’s theories is that you killed your master for his research,” he snorted. “She just doesn’t know you very well. The fact that someone’s put a price on your head is more indicative of your personality or lack thereof than a common motive for murder. Besides, what makes you think he would tell me something that he wouldn’t tell you?”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  He turned his head away from me, though of course he was as aware of me as he would always be. At any given time, at any given angle, thousands of his eyes would be looking in my direction. “You’re quicker than you used to be. Tell me, did you ever beat Corvinus at chess?”