by R. L. King
“Possibly. But there’s something else that makes me wonder about that.”
“What?”
“I watched the communications between Ortega and the parabiochemist again. I didn’t find any trace of corporate iconography on any of the files.”
Ocelot frowned. “So?”
“So…if this were an official Aztechnology job, why try so hard to hide it? I’ll bet if I asked Scuzzy to examine these files more closely, he’d find that there wasn’t even any identifiable metadata on any of these files associating them with AZT.”
“So you’re sayin’ that Johnson, or Ortega, or whatever his name is, is doing this on his own?”
Winterhawk spread his hands in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture. “If he is, though, that makes me wonder why.”
“What it makes me wonder,” Ocelot said, “Is if this other group who’s after it, the one who apparently hired Kivuli and maybe tried to take out the Gypsies, isn’t working for Ortega, then they might know about whatever this thing is connected to. Maybe that’s why they want it.”
Winterhawk nodded. “True. We’ll have to be sure to tell the koradji about that when we hand it over.” He looked up at Ocelot, his expression serious. “If I can’t do it for whatever reason, then you—”
“Shut up, ’Hawk.”
The mage considered for a moment, then nodded. “I’m sure he and his people will have ways of making sure that the others won’t be able to track it. I don’t think they can track it now, as long as it’s under cover. That’s why I’m not trying to study the item itself any further—I’m afraid it will lead the other group right to us. It might have already.”
Ocelot didn’t answer, because at that moment Bodge’s voice came over the Bison’s PA. “You guys might want to look sharp. We’re almost there.”
It was another fifteen minutes before they reached their destination, a collection of makeshift, temporary buildings spread out over a small area near a series of low foothills. Even before they reached it, they could see groups of people going about their business, the glows of fires, and even a couple dogs running around.
“Here we are,” Bodge said, pulling to a stop. “Let me do the talkin’, at least at first. I’ve dealt with this group before—they’re not crazy about strangers comin’ ta visit, but if I vouch for ya it should be okay. Just be frosty, and don’t do anything insultin’.”
“Great,” Ocelot muttered. “Because city guys from Seattle know everything about what Aborigines might find insulting…”
They trooped out of the Bison and stood taking the place in for a moment. Winterhawk could feel gazes on them from all around; he was sure the small group of Aborigines who had come out to meet them were not the only ones nearby.
“G’day, Bodge,” one of the men, a small, solidly-built human, called, waving. Then he switched briefly into a language Winterhawk didn’t understand. Bodge said something in the same language, and then the first man switched back to English. “What are you doin’ here? You bring somethin’ for us?” He eyed the newcomers one at a time, as if memorizing each of their faces. “Who you got here?”
Bodge turned to Winterhawk. “Tell ’em,” he said. “I got no idea what yer lookin’ for.” He pointed at the man. “This is Cole. Cole, this is Winterhawk. He and his group hired me to bring ’em out here.”
Winterhawk stepped forward, leaning heavily on a metal pole he’d salvaged from the Bison with one arm and gripping the box containing the artifact in the crook of the other. “We need to speak with your most powerful koradji,” he said, his voice raspy. “It’s very important.”
The man looked at him like he’d just asked them to hand over leadership of their group to a band of kangaroos. He turned back to Bodge and shook his head. “Bodge, what’s goin’ on, mate? You can’t just bring some gubba by and expect Thuma to talk to him. Anyway, he’s busy. He’s in the middle of his meditations.”
Winterhawk’s patience for diplomacy was at perhaps an all-time low. His legs trembled and he tightened his grip on the pole. “Please, listen,” he said. He indicated the box. “We’ve got something here he’ll want to see. It’s a magical artifact created by your people.”
Some of the other Aborigines watching from further back murmured to each other. Cole’s eyes traveled from Winterhawk to the box he held and then back up to his face. It didn’t take any sort of perception to tell that his experiences generally involved white men trying to take artifacts away from his people, not coming to their camp to offer them one.
“He’s a magic man, Cole,” Bodge said. “I’ve seen him sling the mojo. He knows what he’s talkin’ about.”
Cole considered for another long moment, then finally nodded. “I’ll see if he wants to talk to you,” he said at last. He motioned a couple of other Aborigines over and spoke in low tones to them, then turned back to the group. “You go with them and wait. I’ll be back soon.” Without another word to them he turned and jogged off, disappearing up a trail into the hills.
By now, more Aborigines had gathered to check out the newcomers. For the most part they hung back, watching from a distance, but the two Cole had spoken with, a calm-eyed human woman and a watchful, battle-scarred ork man, came forward.
“C’mon,” the man said in heavily accented English. “You’ve traveled far. Come and rest while you wait.”
They followed the two into a smallish hut. Winterhawk went first, noticing that Ocelot was staying close by. “I’m not going to keel over,” he muttered under his breath. “Not quite yet, anyway.” He hoped that was true, but wasn’t completely sure about it.
Ocelot didn’t answer, but he didn’t move away, either. Dreja, Scuzzy, and Tiny followed along behind.
Half an hour passed before a figure appeared in the doorway. It was a tall, lean young man of perhaps seventeen, dressed in cargo shorts, a leather vest, and dusty leather boots. His dark skin was crisscrossed with scars and tattoos. He looked over the group and his gaze settled immediately on Winterhawk. “Please come with me,” he said. “Thuma says he’ll talk to you.”
They followed the boy silently up a long path to the top of a ridge. Winterhawk gritted his teeth, forcing himself forward, but by the time they made it to the top he was barely standing. Ocelot gave him a questioning look, but he shook his head. He was going to see this through, if for no other reason than sheer stubbornness.
The boy led them through a wide opening into a cave set into the hillside. Light flickered from within, casting eerie shadows onto the stone walls. As they headed further in, they saw another man sitting cross-legged in front of a fire. He was considerably older than the boy; every visible centimeter of his skin was decorated with even more intricate scars and tattoos. The cave walls were also decorated with paintings and symbols that seemed to move in the firelight. The boy motioned for them to wait, then dropped to his knees next to the older man.
“I think even I can feel the magic in here,” Dreja muttered, looking around nervously.
Winterhawk nodded. When he had switched to astral perception, both the cave and the two Aborigines’ body art had lit up with auras: the paintings and symbols were powerfully magical, and the koradji himself displayed a strong and unmasked aura. Even though their traditions were so different as to be nearly alien to each other, Winterhawk had no trouble recognizing another initiate of the higher mysteries. If nothing else, the serpent would be in good hands.
“Come,” the boy said. “Sit.”
The group did as they were told, taking their places around the fire. It was only then that the koradji himself spoke. “Welcome,” he said. “It’s not often we get visitors from so far away. You can call me Thuma, and this is Narrah, my apprentice.”
Everyone introduced themselves. Thuma nodded politely at each name, but it was clear that his mind was on something far away. “Please,” he said, “Tell me why you’ve come.”
Winterhawk got right to it. He set the box in front of him, and gave the koradji a brief explanation of wha
t it contained, where they’d gotten it, and why they had it. He spoke slowly, frustrated with himself that the mere act of speaking was draining his strength. When he finished, he was shaking, his hands clutching the edge of the box. Moving with care, he slid the lid off the box and tilted it so Thuma could see what was inside.
The koradji’s reaction startled them all. He was clearly assensing as he looked at it, and as soon as his gaze fell on the serpent, he jerked backward as if he’d been hit by an electrical current. Narrah, alarmed, started to dart forward to catch him, but he waved a dismissive hand. Winterhawk noticed that his expression was fearful, and he too was shaking. “Close it…” Thuma rasped.
“What’s wrong?” Ocelot asked, as Winterhawk quickly returned the lid to the box.
For a long time, Thuma didn’t answer. He leaned back, eyes closed, taking deep, steady breaths. Then he opened his eyes. “So, it has come at last.”
“What’s come?” Dreja asked.
Thuma’s eyes were unfocused; he wasn’t looking at any of them, but rather seemed to be seeing something none of the rest of them could. “I have been sent dreams of this moment,” he said. “So have other koradji I have spoken with in the recent past.”
“Dreams?” Winterhawk asked, his gaze sharpening. His curiosity drove away a little of his growing feeling of unease. “What sort of dreams?”
“About this thing?” Scuzzy asked, pointing at the box.
“Dreams of something that was to happen,” Thuma said, still without looking at them. “Dreams of something…terrible coming into the world. But the dreams were not specific. They merely urged us to be watchful.”
“You’re saying this thing is dangerous?” Dreja asked.
Thuma snapped back to awareness, almost as if he were awakening from another of his prophetic dreams. “Not on its own,” he said.
Winterhawk stared at him. “It’s connected to something,” he said softly. “Isn’t it?”
Thuma looked surprised that he had figured that out. “Yes. You can feel it?”
“When I was examining it, yes. It feels like it’s—pulling at something.”
The old koradji nodded. “Please—may I see it?”
Winterhawk passed the box across to him. He took it, settling it into the hollow formed by his crossed legs, and began running his hands over it, chanting in a low and musical voice.
“What’s he doing?” Scuzzy whispered.
Winterhawk continued assensing before answering in a low voice. “He’s weaving a sort of protective field around it. Probably so he can examine it safely.”
After a few minutes, Thuma stopped chanting, though he still appeared to be focused on something far away. Slowly, he slid the top back off the box and stared down into it.
Ocelot stiffened. “Is that—?”
“It’s all right,” Winterhawk murmured. “He’s got it contained.”
It was getting hard to stay upright now. Sweat unrelated to the heat of the fire trickled down his back, and a growing, gnawing ache bloomed steadily from somewhere within his chest. The spirit was on the move again. He focused on watching Thuma work, though the koradji’s protective magic was strong enough that he could no longer see the serpent’s aura even at such close proximity.
Thuma’s examination lasted for nearly fifteen minutes. Dreja and Ocelot sat still, each appearing to be lost in their own thoughts, while Tiny and Scuzzy looked uncomfortable and fidgeted, shifting back and forth and looking around the cavern. A couple of times Winterhawk caught Scuzzy’s gaze straying toward the bag where he kept his deck, but the decker managed to refrain from retrieving it.
Suddenly, Thuma sagged, his eyes growing wide. It was hard to tell for sure between the inky darkness of his skin and the flickering firelight, but his complexion seemed to take on a slight ashen tone. Narrah, the apprentice, moved to his side, but he held up a hand, sliding the lid back on the box with the other. “I hoped I was wrong…”
“What is it?” Ocelot asked.
In answer, he looked at Winterhawk. “I know something of your tradition,” he said. “And I see that you, too, are awakened to the higher mysteries.”
Winterhawk nodded.
“It’s my understanding,” he continued, “that in your tradition, it’s customary during one of your early initiation rites to inscribe your magical insights onto a document, correct?”
“Yes.” Winterhawk himself had created such a work many years ago; a handmade, leatherbound tome stored in a secure location. Aside from serving as the focus of one of his initiation ordeals, it also formed the cornerstone of his thesis when he’d obtained his Applied Thaumaturgy doctorate. He looked hard at Thuma. “Are you saying—?”
The koradji indicated the box. “In our tradition, we take a different approach to the same purpose. We produce an artistic piece, a masterwork, that captures the whole of our Dreaming. I have created one, and it’s the only material possession that has any meaning to me. It encompasses everything I am, my connection with the ancestors and other spirits, my place within the greater Dreaming. It is, as you might expect, an intensely powerful and personal process.”
Ocelot leaned in. “Are you saying that this thing is one of those?”
Thuma looked troubled. “Yes…and no.”
“What’s that mean?” Scuzzy asked.
“It isn’t complete, for one thing,” he said. He looked at Winterhawk. “That’s why you think it’s connected to something: because it is. This is only half of the work. There is another, somewhere, and it seeks its counterpart.”
Dreja frowned. “Why now? Wouldn’t they have been looking for each other all along? I thought this thing was old.”
“It’s ancient,” Thuma said. “And from the story you tell me, this one was hidden away beneath the earth until the manastorm revealed it.”
“The earth would have blocked its signal,” Winterhawk said, nodding. He took a deep breath, tightening his jaw against his growing pain. “But there’s something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling us.”
“Yes.” Thuma held up the serpent, studying it. “This is, I’m sure, what was sent to me and the other koradji in our dreams, and now I see why. If these two halves of the whole are reunited, then it will have dire consequences. And I fear that there are those who are trying to do just that.”
“Why?” Scuzzy asked. “I don’t get this magic stuff very well, but isn’t this just like some kind of magical autobiography? Like you create this thing and draw mystic symbols all over it that tell the story of your life or something? How can that be dangerous?”
“Because that isn’t all this one is,” Thuma said. Real fear flickered in his eyes along with the firelight as he pointed at the various symbols and pictographs on the serpent. “It’s a thesis, yes. But if what I read here is true, the koradji who created it was a man whose true name was lost, but who was known as Akurra, which is the Adnyamathanha people’s name for a powerful snake spirit. He lived many years ago—some have even said millennia—and was known for having such vast power that those who knew him were convinced he spoke to the gods themselves.” He paused, then looked up. “He was also said to have been quite mad.”
“Wait a minute,” Ocelot said. “I get that this thing is more than just a life story—that it’s got some kind of magical component that connects it with the guy who created it. But this guy’s got to be dead, right? So even if it’s still connected to him, how can that cause any trouble? It’s not like joining the two pieces together is gonna raise his spirit, or—”
Thuma’s gaze, steady and calm, swiveled to meet his.
Ocelot’s eyes widened. “Oh, holy drek…” he breathed.
The koradji nodded. “The legends spoke of how Akurra was able to preserve his spirit in a carefully prepared vessel prior to his death, and how his followers hid it away until the time came to unearth it and release him. That’s all we thought they were: legends. But after seeing this…” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t k
now if combining the two parts will allow Akurra’s spirit to be released into our world, but the fact that they’re still pulling at each other after all this time suggests that it’s possible. We can’t take the risk.”
Winterhawk stared at Thuma with almost as much shock as Ocelot did; his mind reeled with questions that clamored to get out, but he knew this wasn’t the time. “Can you hide it?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Or destroy it?”
“I don’t know if I could destroy it,” Thuma said soberly. “But I wouldn’t, in any case. This is part of our culture, part of the Dreaming. I didn’t create it, so it’s not for me to destroy it. But I’ll confer with the other koradji who shared in my visions. If you leave it with us, we will see to it that it’s protected and hidden from anyone who might want to misuse it. I’m sure that, given time, between us we can make a ritual that will safely break the connection and remove the threat.”
“If it’s that dangerous,” Dreja said, “Wouldn’t it make sense to get it as far away from its other half as possible? Hell, maybe arrange to put it in a lead box and drop it in the ocean, or have it sent up into space?”
“Or if you can’t destroy it, then we can,” Tiny said, speaking for the first time. “It doesn’t look very tough.”
Dreja glared at him. “Yeah, like we’re gonna let you anywhere near it, after what you said before.”
“Please,” Thuma said, holding up his hands. He looked at Winterhawk. “It must be your decision. But now that you’ve brought this to us, I beg you—leave it with us. It belongs with our people.”
Winterhawk nodded. He looked around the circle at his friends, trying to read their thoughts from their faces, even though he knew this was ultimately his own decision. He had gotten them all into this, and he could already feel the shadow gnawing at him, gaining power, draining his strength. He was sure he didn’t have much longer before he wouldn’t be able to make his wishes known. “We brought it to you,” he said. “It—”
Pain.