Dark War

by Tim Waggoner

  Bartelmeu looked a bit chagrined. "Not as such, no."

  Maggie explained. "It's not that he doesn't know. He has to be careful of how much he tells us."

  "He has to avoid temporal paradox," Arthur said. "By giving us information about the future, he risks changing that future, thereby rendering the information he gives us useless."

  "And perhaps making things even worse in the process," Maggie added.

  Despite his lack of physical lungs, Bartelmeu sighed. "It's true. Sometimes I think God has a warped sense of humor."

  I struggled to contain the frustration I felt. This man – well, this ghost – knew everything I needed to know in order to stop Gregor and save Devona. Only he couldn't tell me.

  As if reading my mind, and perhaps he did, Bartelmeu hurriedly added, "But that doesn't mean I can't help! You came here to obtain weapons that will help you get through Varvara's army and reach Demon's Roost. That was your own idea, and I won't be interfering with the natural course of events by telling you that we plan to supply you with such weapons."

  "You'll have to go on your own, though," Maggie said. "Just the three of you, the way you'd planned to before coming here."

  Arthur gave us an excited smile. "Since we knew you were coming, I had time to prepare some real good ones for you!" As quickly as it had come, his smile faded. "I just wish I could go along and watch you use them. One of the problems with being a techie is that I hardly ever get out into the field."

  Maggie gave him a consolatory pat on the back. "Maybe next time."

  Behind his diffusers, Varney frowned. "But why will you loan us weapons? Why help us at all, for that matter? You said you don't care about the war."

  "Because helping you supports our mission," Maggie said. "Bartelmeu has confirmed that someone is attempting to move Nekropolis to Earth. Not just part of it, not just a single Dominion, but the entire city. The Hidden Light has been around in one form or another since the Darkfolk first appeared, trying to protect humanity from being preyed on by the monsters that dwelled in the dark. As you might imagine, we were quite happy to see the Darkfolk leave Earth for Nekropolis. In fact, you might say that we helped you move. As powerful as Dis and the Darklords are, opening a portal to another dimension, building a city there, and transporting an entire race of people to live in it was a task they couldn't quite accomplish on their own. They needed our aid, and we were glad to provide it. But once they settled in Nekropolis, not every member of the Darkfolk was thrilled to be cut off from the pleasures Earth had to offer, and some attempted to return. The Darklords tried to stop them, but some got through."

  "And that's where we came in," Arthur said. "We set up shop here in Nekropolis to make sure the Darkfolk stay here. We don't want to hurt you, especially, but we want to make certain that you never return to Earth and begin preying on humanity again."

  "We intend to stop whoever and whatever is attempting to transport Nekropolis to Earth," Maggie said. She glanced at Bartelmeu. "And according to our resident psychic saint, arming you three is our best shot at doing so."

  Bartelmeu smiled. "And I predict a solid fifty-fifty chance of success! You can't ask for better odds than that!" He frowned. "Well, I suppose you could, but you're not going to get them."

  "So either we'll win or we won't." I sighed. "How comforting."

  You know something? Sometimes I really hate my job.

  SEVENTEEN

  Arthur was giving Varney and Shamika some lastminute instructions on how their weapons worked, and since he'd already checked me out on mine, I pulled Maggie aside to talk with her.

  "Thanks for the assist," I told her. "We'll try to bring your toys back unbroken if we can."

  She smiled. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Besides, it'll be worth the loss of our equipment if you manage to prevent Nekropolis from being transported to Earth."

  "Bartelmeu called you Joan at one point," I said. "If you're who I think you are, you're looking awfully good for a woman who died over five hundred years ago."

  "This is Nekropolis, Matt. You above all people should know that death doesn't mean the same thing here as it does on Earth." Her smile edged toward a grin. "Besides, haven't you ever heard of the eternal flame?"

  She raised an index finger and fire suddenly wreathed the flesh. She then lifted the finger to her mouth and, with a wink, blew out the flames.

  When we were ready to say our goodbyes, Saint Bartelmeu's ghostly form began to fade.

  "Good luck to you all," he said. "And Matt, no matter what happens, don't despair. Devona will give you a hand if she's able."

  I didn't know what he meant exactly, but his cryptic words implied that Devona was still alive, and I found that immensely reassuring.

  Then Bartelmeu was gone, and Maggie, Arthur, and Houston the weremadillo walked us back to the elevator.

  "Aren't you going to try to wipe our memories or something?" I asked Maggie. "You've worked so hard to keep the location of your headquarters secret, I'm surprised you're simply going to let us walk out of here."

  "We don't get many visitors," Maggie said, "but we have chemical means of removing all memory of their stay with us, thanks to our benefactor upstairs."

  "You mean Bennie-factor," I said, and Maggie smiled.

  "Indeed. But we can't afford to tinker with your memories, not if we want you to recall how to properly use the weapons we provided you. We'll just have to trust you not to reveal our location to anyone. And if you're ever tempted… Do you remember the verse in the Bible about how God notes the fall of every sparrow?"

  "It sounds familiar," I said.

  Maggie gave us an intense look. "Well, He's not the only one with His eye on you. Don't forget that."

  We took the Underwalk to a club only a couple blocks from Demon's Roost. I would've liked to have gotten closer if we could, but this was the closest exit to Varvara's stronghold, and it was the best we could do.

  As we walked up the ladder and entered through a trapdoor in the club's storeroom, Shamika said, "I know the situation is serious, and you're worried about Devona, Matt – and please don't take this the wrong way – but it's nice to actually be taking part in events instead of just watching them happen around me. I spent so many years hiding in the shadows, just observing, never taking part… Whatever happens, however this turns out, at least I did something for once, you know?"

  I tried to imagine what it must've been like for Shamika, spending centuries being a fly on the wall, always watching, always alone. What did it say about such an existence that she found being in the middle of a war preferable? I guess it said everything.

  The club was deserted and when we went outside, we saw the street was empty as well – no traffic, no pedestrians. Given how insanely busy the Sprawl is twenty-four hours a day, I found the lack of activity and the silence that came with it profoundly eerie.

  We walked into the street and headed in the direction of Demon's Roost, Varney on my right, Shamika on my left. We'd emerged from the Underwalk within the cordoned-off area around Demon's Roost, but it seemed the Demonkin soldiers had all drawn closer to their queen's fortress, perhaps in anticipation of Talaith's next attack. Whatever the reason, we didn't encounter any resistance until we were within sight of Demon's Roost.

  A squad of demons sat in the middle of the street, smoking, drinking, drugging, gambling, and generally showing a complete lack of military discipline. Hey, no commanders were around to chastise them, and they were demons.

  The first to notice us was a she-demon with a cat's head, and a giant python for a tail.

  She spoke in a slightly slurred voice. "Hey guys, either the hallucinogens I took just kicked in, or someone's gotten through our perimeter."

  The other demons turned to look at us, and while a few grinned in anticipation of the fun they were going to have slaughtering us, several noted how we were armed with looks of confusion and mounting concern.

  A heavily muscled blue-skinned demon, whose facial features we
re embedded in his chest, stood up and shouldered what looked like a bazooka made out of a half-dozen spinal columns.

  "Time for some target practice!" he said in a booming voice.

  The rest of the squad rose to their feet and readied their weapons, but not all of them did so with equal enthusiasm. I assumed the hesitant ones sensed the power in the objects we carried, but weren't yet quite sure what to make of them, or us.

  "Stay close to me," I whispered to Varney and Shamika, and they both nodded. Then pitching my voice louder so the demons could hear, I said, "One warning: run now and you get to live!"

  The face-chest demon laughed. "Some threat, zombie! You look like you're about to fall apart any second. We won't even have to waste any ammo on you. All one of us will have to do is walk up and tap you on the shoulder, and you'll collapse like a house of cards!"

  Several of his fellow soldiers laughed, though some did so uncomfortably. The closer Varney, Shamika, and I got, the more they could sense the power we carried with us, and the more worried they became. I couldn't blame Face-Chest for laughing at me, though. By this point, it took all the concentration I had to keep my component pieces together, and I moved like a drunken puppet suffering from constant seizures. Hardly the most intimidating sight.

  Face-Chest went on. "Still, I think shooting you will be more fun." He pulled the trigger on his weapon, there was a loud ka-chunk as it fired, and a screaming severed demon head shot forth from its barrel and came flying through the air toward me, fangs gnashing in anticipation of taking a big bite out of me when it hit.

  I didn't do anything to protect myself. I just kept walking. If what Arthur had told me was correct, my coat would take care of the rest.

  The coat I wore was long-sleeved and stretched down past my knees, almost making it look like a robe. It was striped with different colors, but which colors precisely was hard to say, for the longer you looked at them, the more they seemed to change. I recalled what Arthur had told me.

  The Coat of Every Color is just what its name implies. Every color of every spectrum of Light is represented – and not just the basic Roy G. Biv colors that everyone knows about. The Shades of Reverse Enlightenment, the Hues of Spiritual Transmigration, the Seventeen Ur-colors of the First Moment After Creation… they're all here.

  As the shrieking demon head drew near, light exploded forth from my coat, and when it vanished, the head was gone.

  I turned to look at Varney. "You OK?"

  The vampire was encased in a black hazmat suit made from pure curseweave, a fabric so evil that it was supposed to be proof against the power of any holy object. I couldn't see Varney's face behind the black glass of the suit's faceplate, but his muffled voice came through clearly enough.

  "That stung more than a little, but I'm all right."

  I turned to Shamika and saw she was smiling.

  "That tickled!" she said.

  The light hadn't exactly tickled the demons, however. Despite the fact they were still a dozen yards away from us, most of them had suffered flash burns, and several appeared to have been blinded. Half cried out in fear and despair, dropped their weapons, and fled. The rest – including Face-Chest – remained behind, looking grimly determined, if more than a little afraid.

  I'd used holy objects against Darkfolk before, but I'd never given much thought as to where the source of their power came from. I know that primitive forms of the Darkfolk evolved before humans, and that the more sophisticated forms they eventually took were influenced by humanity's fears and imagination. I'd always assumed that religious objects were effective against certain types of Darkfolk because humanity imagined them that way. But there was no denying that the Coat of Every Color had power all its own, but as to what exactly the ultimate source of that power was, I couldn't tell you. But I was damn thankful to be wearing it.

  "I don't know what the hell that was," PythonTail said, "but do you really think one magic coat is going to be enough to get you past us?"

  "It might be," I said. "But luckily for us, we've got more. Shamika, Varney, why don't you show them?"

  Varney fired first. He carried a wooden tube and he aimed it at the demons and pressed a hidden switch. A trio of soft pops sounded as tiny rolls of paper shot out of the tube and sailed toward the squad of demons. The paper rolls expanded in size as they drew closer to the demons and unfurled, revealing characters written in Japanese kanji. The paper grew large enough to wrap around demons like blankets, and when they did so, the demons caught in their embrace screamed in agony. The papers were osame-fuda, Buddhist prayer slips, and when they touched demon flesh, they burst into flame, rapidly burning themselves – and the demons caught in their grip – to ash.

  Shamika carried a pair of sterling silver hand bells, and she rang them with vigorous enthusiasm. The pure tones of the Herald Bells rang through the air with crystal clarity, each note containing more beauty than a dozen symphonies, and as they rang Shamika chanted a phrase she'd heard Arthur say.

  "'Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings!'"

  Demons screamed and clapped their hands to their ears to shut out the sound, but the music was as much of the spirit as physical sound, and their efforts were futile. Blood streamed from their ears and eyes, and some fled, hands still held fast to their ears. Of those who didn't flee, more than a few had their heads explode in bursts of blood, bone, and brain matter.

  Of the original squad, only five demons remained, Face-Chest and Python-Tail among them. All of them were bleeding from their eyes and ears, but they were tough enough to withstand the power of the Herald Bells, though the effort had obviously taken a lot out of them. They began firing their weapons, and automatic gunfire strafed us along with high-tech energy beams and mystic power blasts. But the Coat of Every Color blazed with Light in response to the demons' attack, neutralizing everything they threw at us. After several moments, they realized their efforts were useless and they stopped firing, and the coat stopped shining.

  "I gave you the chance to run," I told them, and I swung the weapon Arthur had given to me. It looked like a Native American dreamcatcher attached to a handle, and I swung it back and forth through the air as if it were a small handheld net. But this wasn't for catching dreams. It was a Dreamthrower, a device that disgorged the nightmares that a dreamcatcher collected.

  Every time I swung the Dreamthrower, a tiny shadow-creature leaped forth from the device and began growing as it landed on the ground and ran swiftly toward the remaining demons. The Nightmares swelled in size as they went, becoming large as elephants, all ebon teeth and claws, and though the last few demons finally had the good sense to turn and attempt to flee, it was too late. The Nightmares fell upon them and within seconds tore them apart. When there were no more demons to kill, the Nightmares simply faded as if they'd never existed.

  Shamika, Varney, and I stood alone in the street, completely unharmed by our encounter with the demons.

  "I'd call that a successful field test," I said. "Now that we've had a chance to practice with our new toys, I think it's time to pay General Klamm-slashGregor a visit."

  We continued toward Demon's Roost, mowing down every demon that didn't have enough sense to get the hell out of our way.

  • • • •

  Reaching Varvara's penthouse turned out to be easier than I thought. Because demons are so selfcentered, once they realize they can't win a fight, they immediately focus on doing whatever is necessary to save their asses, and to blazes with whatever cause they were fighting for. Word must've spread quickly among the Demonkin's ranks, because by the time we were actually inside Demon's Roost, few of Varvara's people remained to give us any trouble. I'd been keeping an eye out for Scorch the whole time – I wanted to make sure we didn't accidentally hurt her on our way to Varvara's stronghold – but I saw no sign of the demoness. Either she was stationed elsewhere in the Sprawl or she'd taken off when she heard we were coming. I was glad. Scorch is tough, but I knew she couldn't stand against the holy
weapons the Hidden Light had loaned us.

  The elevator to Varvara's penthouse was unguarded, and while I wasn't thrilled at the idea of taking it, I was even less thrilled at the prospect of walking up a dozen flights of stairs.

  "Are you sure it's safe?" Varney said through his hazmat hood.

  Before I could answer, Shamika said, "It is. Gregor has eyes everywhere. He's known we were coming since we engaged that first squad of demons. If he didn't want us to use the elevator, he'd have disabled it."

  "Maybe he booby-trapped it," Varney pointed out. "Wouldn't Gregor love it if we fought all this way to reach Demon's Roost only to get crushed in a falling elevator?"

  Shamika shook her head. "I know how my brother thinks. He'll want to see me, if for no other reason than to tell me that he's right and I'm wrong." She looked at me. "And he'll want to have words with you too, Matt."

  I said, "That's good, because I have a few things to say to him myself."

  I pressed the elevator's up button.

  No Muzak played as we ascended, which was just as well. I hate Muzak.

  Varvara's penthouse-cum-war-room was empty, with the exception of the Demon Queen herself and General Klamm. The computer stations around the room were vacant and their monitors were black. The holo table in the middle of the room was still active, though, and it currently displayed an image of Demon's Roost. Klamm stood at the table, Varvara beside him.