Eviane gagged. The wind changed, and she accidentally inhaled a rancid whiff of sickeningly sweet smoke.
The man spoke. “Interloper!” he said. “You who came to break our power. Your soul is ours now, and I command you to tell us everything.”
Robin twisted on the rack as if he was still alive, the bonds cutting into his already red and raw wrists.
“Told you. Told you.”
“No!” the Cabalist thundered.
“Everything. Everything.”
Eviane pulled her head away from the hole, breathed a few gulps of clean air, and then hazarded another peek. She recognized the man this time. It was Ahk-lut, the son of Martin the Arctic Fox. His dark, scarred face was twisted and gaunt.
Now that she thought of it—
All of them looked sick.
Her tendency was to mark that down to the unspeakable evil of their practices. But now, looking at the twelve members of the Cabal, she saw that one and all seemed spent, sickly, and diseased, as if each had paid some ungodly price for the necromantic gifts and powers they coveted.
The leader reached into Robin’s body and chanted something so low that she couldn’t hear it and then he twisted . . .
Robin screamed. She hoped never to hear another such scream. She slid back against the rock slab, panting. Yarnall pulled her goggles away from her, and donned them, hanging over the smoke stack to hear what was going on.
“Aiiiee! . . . ” Robin sounded like a soul dragged over the coals. “All right. All right. All right.”
The leader’s voice was smarmy with self-satisfaction. “Good. Speak. What could have given you enough power to overcome our bathers?”
“We . . . my companions carried magic of our own.”
“Magic? Greater than the sky-metal?” There was a general hush of anticipation, and Eviane heard herself saying:
No! Robin! Wherever your soul is, don’t let them force you—
“Aiiie!”
She didn’t need to see to know what had been done. Yarnall crawled back next to her, choking. “Good Lord! Did you see what they were—”
Charlene took the goggles away from Yarnall and looked for herself. For about three seconds. “They play rough,” she said.
Bowles shrieked madly, “Falling Angel wire! Woven into our backpacks and tents! Round and round it goes, and where it stops—”
Yarnall blanched. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Robin just spilled his g— I mean he’s told them everything. They’re going to be looking for us.”
“For us?” Charlene asked. Her lantern jaw worked furiously on a nonexistent stick of gum.
“If they can get the Falling Angel wire, they’ll have more power than ever before. We may have made a mistake, bringing it to them.”
The three of them cautiously climbed back up the mountainside, testing the shadows as they went. Eviane felt sickened, but utterly determined. They worked their way back to where seven Gamers waited for them in a pocket of shadows.
Johnny Welsh and Snow Goose spoke simultaneously. “What did you see?”
Yarnall informed them, in graphic terms, of the Cabal’s dread necromancy. “Can we turn him off somehow?”
“Robin is beyond any help I can offer.” Snow Goose looked sickened.
Orson and Max squatted together. “What’s our play?”
Orson leaned back against one of the stone slabs. “Well . . . I would say that Yarnall is right. We’re in for a bad time. Look at it this way. We’ve freed Sedna, and she’s growing healthier by the moment, I’d guess. The Cabal must be desperate. They need that wire. They also know we’re here, so I would expect things to hot up.”
Frankish Oliver crouched next to them, looking slightly Pancho Villaesque in his bandoleer. “What are our options?”
“We’ve come too far to back out. And if we run, we have nowhere to run to—as long as The Cabal is safe, the whole world is in danger.”
“So what do you think?” Snow Goose asked.
“Well—the satellite, the sky-metal. It’s here somewhere. They worship it. It’s been the source of much of their power. It has to be here.”
“We can’t take it with us—you can see what it did to them. Damned thing is radioactive.”
They were downcast, looking at each other as if hoping that one of their faces might hold an answer.
Snow Goose spoke quietly. “I hate to suggest it, because it is a totem of such power. But if it cannot be used safely—”
“I’d say not,” Yarnall reiterated. “Look how sick the Cabal are. Nothing but magic is holding those bastards together.”
She nodded. “Then it must be found, and destroyed.”
“Destroyed,” Charlene said. “How?”
“That’s a good question. Daddy never said anything about this.”
“Maybe we could get it out of their reach,” Charlene offered.
“Bury it under a glacier, or in the sea, or maybe give it to one of those land whales.”
“I think one of them is a land whale,” Orson said.
“Blow it up,” Yarnall said. “Oliver’s got those flare grenades—”
Johnny Welsh shook his head. “Not enough, I’d think.” Orson had been staring into the wall. “Listen, people,” he said, voice dreamy. “These magical objects are like storage batteries—the further they travel, the more magic they hold, right?”
“Yeah . . . ” Johnny Welsh’s mobile face was twisted with concentration, as he strove to second-guess Orson.
Orson rubbed his hands together, warming to his theme. “What if the ‘storage battery’ metaphor holds true in more ways than one? Couldn’t we rig some kind of forced discharge? I mean, or short-circuit them . . . ”
“Got it,” Max said. “Snow Goose, if we gathered all of the Falling Angel wire into one place, all of the backpacks and tents, dumped them on the satellite wreckage, do you think you could cook up a spell that would drain it?”
Snow Goose thought for a moment. “Wait,” she said. “I need to meditate about this.”
She closed her eyes, and pressed her hands against her ears, chanting softly.
Eviane felt the excitement. It was a terrific idea. Executed properly, it could destroy the power that the Cabal had used to bind the Raven, throwing the whole situation into a new ball game.
Done wrong, of course, it could kill them all. She could not foresee the result . . . and that was the best part. What she could foresee from the choices she knew, was blood and ice and universal death.
She could hear all of the breathing in the confined space as if it was her own. Finally Snow Goose opened her eyes. “All right,” she said. “We can do it.”
They would have hooted or hollered or something, but the nasties that haunted the island would have heard them, and come for lunch. So they just formed a circle and hugged each other, and began to lay their plans.
Chapter Thirty-One
CHALLENGE
The multitowered rise of San Diego’s EnCom Plaza was a billion-dollar paean to the ego and accomplishments of one man:
Kareem Fekesh.
Alex Griffin shielded his eyes as he emerged from the tube station. Although only an eighteen-minute ride from Dream Park (including tube transfer) the tubes had been relatively quiet, and dark. Alex had closed his eyes, trying to keep the tension at a dull roar.
Understandable, considering what was sitting in his lap, and what he had to attempt.
The sidewalks buzzed with activity, and in the midst of it he felt slightly uncomfortable.
How long had it been since he ventured outside the environs of Cowles Industries? With all of the resorts, shopping malls, entertainment complexes, and health services, he actually hadn’t needed to leave the corporate environment for . . .
Over a year?
Astonishing, now that he actually thought of it. Closer to two years, maybe.
The executive jets, the tubes, the vacations in Aspen and fishing in Bermuda . . . All of these things had been o
wned, controlled, designed by Cowles Industries, if not outright owned and maintained for the use of the executive staff. A totally self-contained world.
Alex was suddenly, painfully aware of how vulnerable he felt. There was no nod of recognition from the hundreds and thousands of people passing him on the street. The street sounds were foreign to him—there were still internal-combustion engines in San Diego, albeit small, efficient ones. He could smell it in the air.
It was new, and in a way exciting. He ran up the dozen steps to the Glass Tower, the tallest and most prominent building in EnCom Plaza, rising above the others like a giant standing on stilts.
He ran up those steps, a tall, redheaded man, lean in his three-piece suit, extremely fit, and alert. Perhaps the nervousness didn’t show. Perhaps.
The guard at the front door stopped him—him!—and asked his business.
The guard was portly, with dark skin that didn’t seem to be any protection from the sun. His skin was peeling badly on the tip of his nose, and on his neck. Alex handed him the coded card Fekesh’s secretary had sent via courier.
Oh, very well, Mr. Griffin. If you insist that your business is that important, and that personal, I suppose Mr. Fekesh could squeeze you in for five minutes tomorrow.
Mighty white of her.
Arriving in EnCom Plaza now, Griffin could begin to believe that the man was actually as busy as that.
The guard grudgingly took the card and entered it in a computer slot, read the results. He had a more respectful look when he returned to the door. Not much, but an improvement.
“One moment, sir.”
Alex stepped back as a door hummed open for him, and stepped into a shielded pocket between two three-inch-thick slabs of plastiglass.
He felt an initial humming, and then nothing for several seconds, although the skin on his forearms tingled.
Probably just nerves. Right.
The inner door slid open.
Alex watched everything. The guard clipped a card on his pocket, and said “Penthouse” unnecessarily, pointing toward an elevator.
Alex had seen the plans for the building—there were six elevators visible, and two hidden: Executive and Freight.
The door hissed shut behind him.
He didn’t find it easy to violate the ageless ritual of watching the numbers change on the digital display. It took effort to observe his surroundings. Typical elevator cubicle. Five feet deep, four wide. Seven feet high. Moved soundlessly. The walls seemed made out of burnished copper, but were smoother to the touch; they felt like some kind of plastic. Had the elevator started moving yet?
The door opened soundlessly.
Griffin found himself in a suite of luxury offices. The entire floor seemed to be walled in glass, partitioned off with wood. It made for an interesting mixture, somehow elemental: earth and sky mingled together.
A beautiful brunette at the front desk rose and extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Griffin, of course. Mr. Fekesh is expecting you.”
I’ll just bet he is. “Thank you. May I go in?”
“In a moment. May I get you something?” The ritual question. Coffee. “Club soda, if you have it.”
She laughed musically. “In twenty-six flavors.”
“Lemon, then.”
“I’ll just be a moment.”
Alex sat, aware of his own nervousness, aware that he was probably being watched. The sweet lull of the music—what was that? Something by Mozart? He wasn’t up on his classical music, and for some reason that added to his discomfiture.
There were a dozen people working at various desks, in various stages of activity. But the real work was undoubtedly going on behind the various closed doors. They simply hummed with hidden power.
The receptionist returned clucking to herself as if she were keeper of the world’s best private joke. She handed him a foam-plastic cup. “And Mr. Fekesh will see you in a moment. Please.”
She motioned him to an office door down the hail. He smiled his thanks, took a sip. It was at the perfect edge of coldness, brisk and refreshing. He had always liked the way lemon tasted in fizzing drinks. Cleansing somehow.
The office door was open, and he walked in. The office was a little smaller than he would have expected, and perhaps a touch less opulent. There was a whisper of air, and a faint canned smell to it. He consciously noted something that had only been peripherally registered: the pneumatic hiss of the doors as they shut. Fekesh had a self-contained air supply, doubtless computercontrolled. No hydrocarbons or nitrogenous compounds for Fekesh’s aristocratic lungs.
The entire office was walled in glass. From Fekesh’s perch atop the world he could see the entire sprawl. Griffin looked out.
The damage from the Great Quake had gobbled a bit of shoreline, but something like that couldn’t stop developers, not when they were talking about the most expensive land in the world. So beach fronts had been reclaimed from the tide, at enormous costs passed right along to the consumers. Tidal breaks, stilts, condos with sub-sea-level apartments, and every stunt possible to human ingenuity had been employed to steal back a few extra meters from the sea.
Eventually the sea would have them back again. For now, the men and women who built her, who had stolen those precious cubic meters, could enjoy the illusion of a conquest worth the battle.
Until the next time. He would hate to be in one of those sublevel apartments, bedroom window looking out on the kelp beds, come the next quake.
The office door opened, and Kareem Fekesh walked in.
Alex was a little taller, and a little broader than Fekesh, and needed every cubic centimeter. The man was impressive.
It wasn’t just the clothes, although they made Alex feel impoverished. Or the grooming. A man with a personal barber on twenty-four-hour call could look as good as Fekesh. No problem. No, it was little things in the carnage. He moved like a totally healthy animal. His smile was broad and warm; his teeth an orthodontial dream. His eyes were bright, bright black, and were laughing even when the rest of the face was at rest.
Fekesh rolled into the room, sat at his desk, and smiled out at Alex. “Please,” he said. “Won’t you have a seat. I’m sorry that it has been so difficult for me to arrange this meeting, but there are, as always, a thousand things to do.”
“I understand,” Alex said, trying to create rapport.
Fekesh smiled a smile that said I doubt that, folded his hands, and said, “And so. What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Griffin?”
“I’m going to be presumptuous and assume that you know what I am,” Alex began.
“Not presumptuous at all. We have dealt before. If not directly, then over the video. I make it my business to know all I can about the people with whom I work.”
“This is going to be a difficult meeting, and I hope to simplify it a little.”
“Please, by all means.”
Alex cleared his throat. “As I believe you know, approximately eight years ago, there was an attempted takeover of Cowles Industries.”
Fekesh’s expression never changed. “And?”
“Although nothing can be proven, it is believed that you had a major stake in that takeover bid.”
“Mr. Griffin. Such things are hardly the concern of the Security Chief of Dream Park.”
“Mmm. But by an interesting coincidence, a terrible accident occurred at the same time. One which, if it had become public knowledge, would have driven down the price of Cowles stock, making a takeover all the more feasible.”
“Well, then, let us rejoice that the information never did become public.”
“Have you any interest in clarifying your role in all of this?”
Fekesh drummed his fingers on the table in front of him. “Mr. Griffin. I am a busy man. I was under the impression that you had matters of urgency to discuss, not issues dead a decade ago.”
“And I do,” Alex said. He opened his briefcase and extracted two folders. He pushed them across the desk to Fekesh. “I know that you
have been a principal player in the Barsoom Project, so what I am about to say may sound a bit strange.”
“Yes.” Fekesh opened one of the folders, and glanced through the information, expression noncomittal.
“I spoke of a terrible accident at Dream Park some eight years ago. A woman who was an unwitting accomplice to the sabotage—we might as well call it that—”
Fekesh’s eyebrows lifted a quarter-inch in question.
“—recently returned to the Park to attempt to play out the same game that she was injured in. Someone tried to get her out of the Game.”
“Someone?”
“Someone. It suggests that whoever was responsible for the first occurrence is still present at Dream Park. This suggests the possibility that something is scheduled to happen. Something big.”
“Involving the Barsoom Project?”
“As you see in the folders, we know that someone has taken a major position on Cowles Industries again. There are indications that twenty-six percent of your liquid funds are tied up in assets unknown. You are known to be intimately involved with the Barsoom Project.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t know where all of this is going.”
“Where is it going? If anything unusual happens, I want you to know that we’re going to be right on top of you.”
Fekesh came as close as a human being could to yawning without actually opening his mouth and doing so.
“Mr. Griffin. I wonder how your superiors would feel if they knew that you had threatened me in such a manner?”
Alex’s lips twitched. Harmony would have a calf. “It wasn’t exactly a threat.”
“Nonsense. Don’t insult my intelligence as you have my integrity.” He browsed through the folders. “You have quite a bit of information here on my financial activities. I wonder how you got it.”
Griffin smiled thinly. “We have our sources.”
“Indeed you do. And some of your sources have obviously reached into our computer files. We have security of our own, Mr. Griffin, and I daresay more efficient security than that of Dream Park.” He smiled with those astonishingly white teeth. “Present company excluded, of course. Tell me, Mr. Griffin. Have you ever thought about changing companies? We have excellent benefits for men who honestly know their jobs and loyalties.”
Dream Park [2] The Barsoom Project Page 32