Digital Magic (The Chronicles of Art Book 2)

by Philippa Ballantine

  Seddon leaned back in his chair feeling less a soldier than he had in thirty years. But there would be no winning by the enemy today, not unless they wanted to die on foreign soil. Then there would be no easy path for New Zealand either.

  Looking around the faces at the table, he could see they understood. No foreign aid for them now, no exports and no tourists—they had made themselves a pariah. The scientists said it would take two generations for utu to run its cycle. Two generations before the children of New Zealand could go anywhere. He’d already sent notification to all their allies and enemies, and he knew that when he returned to his desk, there would be horrendous quarantine restrictions in place.

  Pushing himself back from the table, he went to the cabinet and produced a bottle of scotch. “There won’t be any of this coming in from now on—we’ll have to make do.” He poured them all a generous glass.

  To the south, Nana was pulling the curtains and locking the doors. Aroha stoked the fire in the coal range and watched the flames leap. She didn't need to hear Seddon's voice to know it was now all different. The air, the water and the earth herself, said it. Nothing would ever be the same.

  ***

  Ronan sat, contentedly sipping a tangy pale ale at the Green Man. What a curious time this early twenty-first century was. Over four hundred years since a young powerful Bard had broken the Nexus and sent the Fey world, the font of all magic, drifting away from this one. So long ago that he’d thought the echo of it was almost gone.

  Yet despite Industrial revolution, information revolution, wars of all types, over land and water and some just for fun, he still was here—ever the wanderer. His emotions on that piece of luck fluctuated.

  This village was something new to him, though. He scanned his surroundings with an unthreatening smile on his lips. The beer was certainly better than the place that had made it. This typical English pub was so typical it rang very untrue. Little snugs, blazing fire, buxom wenches serving trencher bread; the Green Man struggled to prove itself authentic and yet was not. Public houses, Ronan recalled, had only recently become pleasant enough for him to contemplate spending any time within their walls.

  He leaned back in his well padded chair with a contented sigh. This was far more comfortable than the period they were trying to cultivate. Why couldn’t they simply enjoy their era instead of aching for something that had never been and thus was certainly beyond recall?

  Not then for its own comforts and beauties did Ronan admire the Green Man, but rather for the broad range of humanity it seemed to have trawled up. The room was full of wide-eyed tourists talking in loud voices about the atmosphere and the beauty of the spot. A little collection of locals were gathered around by the bar chatting to the affable publican and his smiling competent looking wife. Such people were the kind he had a real affection for.

  The drone of the combined noise was beginning to make his head ring a bit, though. Ronan tried to tune them out, concentrating on the good beer. Amazing how humans still intrigued him even after all this time. The intricacies of their expressions, their insatiable desire for the transient things in life and not least their incredible taste for the most marvelous food, all held his attention. They were, in fact, what had made over four hundred years bearable, with their tangled web of brawling and loving.

  Ronan eased back in his chair some more but resisted the impolite urge to prop his feet up on the table. The fact that he was drawing a few sideways glances was not unusual and by now he was used to it; perhaps it was the hushsuit or the wide smile he had never learned to control. Ronan grinned into his beer once more. This body had many advantages—which was just as well really, all things considered. It was one of the few left to him.

  “Excuse me, I hope I’m not interrupting.” The sweet sounds of Virginia drew his attention.

  He’d enjoyed his time in that state two decades before, and so beamed his widest smile up at the woman standing next to his table.

  “Certainly not.” How unfortunate that in this age men no longer wore hats. He would rather have liked something to doff.

  The perfect replica of all-American beauty almost dazzled him with row upon row of perfect white teeth. “I was just wondering if you could point me to the VFT Station? I left my map-pilot in the B and B.”

  The corners of his smile turned down. “Unfortunately, you’ve mistaken me for a local. I’m just a traveler here myself.”

  A hint of a forming pout on those far too perfect lips. “I’m sorry. I just thought…”

  Ronan held up his hand, “None of that—I just wish I could help.” He suddenly wondered exactly how his voice sounded to her—what ideas his accent formed in her pretty little head. He’d been told before that his habit of mimicking the accents around him was rather unnerving.

  “Me, too.” A small coy look. “I kind of wish I was staying now.”

  He dropped her a meaningful look. “A great pity.”

  Blushing, the young American scampered back to her group of friends huddled in a nearby snug. Despite himself, Ronan found himself staring after her. Well, that was a surprise; he could have sworn he had become bored with the fairer sex. It had to be last night’s taste of the past. Old memories had not been the only thing that stirred.

  “This is called laying low, then?”

  Ronan turned and smiled easily at the dark and handsome face of his contact. The only name he had to go with it was a quick tag, which was all people in his business were comfortable with: Vortex. This man’s golden lion eyes were not just reproachful—but also tinged with a little fear. He was darting little sideways glances out from under his dreadlocks as if he expected an assassin to leap out from behind the bar.

  Ronan was not displeased, though. A little fear was always an advantage in their profession. Even while he had never met Vortex in the flesh before, he was immediately pleased with what he saw. In truth, part of him had been dreading some rural amateur.

  He gestured his contact into the chair next to him. “This is what I call laying low.”

  “Well, why we couldn’t have met somewhere less public? I mean… I know these people.”

  Something about the local seemed vaguely familiar, but after so long with humanity that wasn’t unusual. Ronan tried to figure out what it was over another warm sip of beer. The trouble was that there were just too many damn memories to sift through. He hid his confusion beneath a slightly antagonistic frown.

  “And I don’t know you—yet.” Ronan let the obvious sink in. Vortex had to understand who he was dealing with, and trust was something that was hard to come by in this business. It was earned or exchanged through a complex web of contacts. You got a name for yourself for getting things done and keeping your business quiet. Vortex's voice was bordering on the range where they might well be overheard.

  The other’s jaw worked a little as his eyes sized him up. Finally the tension oozed out of him like coffee from a broken cup. He shrugged. “It’s no drama I suppose. The village thinks I’m a drug peddler as it is. That’s probably what they think you are too—they wouldn’t know anything about you being Panther.”

  Ronan’s tag was getting alarmingly well known, but that was something he was willing to accept when the consequence was that some of the better jobs came his way. Vortex was a long-time Line pal and a friend of a friend, but something about him was triggering ancient instincts. This realm had very little in the way of friendships to offer—and even Ronan needed friends.

  Leaning across the table, he offered Vortex his hand and his name. “Ronan Rymour.” It wasn’t his true-name, but it was the one he’d used for more than a hundred years and that was still worth something to this near-stranger.

  “Bakari.”

  The atmosphere was easier after that. Having stepped over that first hurdle they were a bit quieter, more relaxed. Bakari didn’t even ask what had gone wrong last night. But Ronan didn't need his long-gone powers to know that was exactly what was on his mind.

  “This job i
s more than I thought. Not as rural. I’ll have to scope things out, so I’ll need some inside info.” Rymour drained the last of his ale.

  Bakari nodded. “Sure thing, but not here, eh?”

  Nothing alarmed him about this man, nothing made his hairs rise, or his pulse quicken. With an ease born of someone used to going on instinct, Ronan rose. “Certainly.”

  “There’s just one thing I gotta know.” Bakari was suddenly very close, his golden wide eyes effectively pinning Ronan, “You’ve felt it too—right? When you saw it?”

  An emotion not unlike grief welled in him, the memory both sweet and painful. He didn’t need to ask what Bakari meant.

  “Oh yes,” he replied softly, “I felt it.” The language didn’t have the right words to convey how well and how deeply he had been affected by his encounter the night before.

  The other gave him an odd appraising look as if he could see beyond the human face Ronan wore, “I knew you would, Panther—you have an old soul, like most of us here.”

  It should have shocked him, this human’s sharp perception, but he was beginning to suspect the very same thing.

  Ronan flashed him a bone-white smile. “Quick wits are what we will need, my friend.” He drew him out of the Green Man where curious ears could not reach. “I’ve found an old soul doesn’t get you nearly as far as it used to.”

  ***

  Bakari, despite all his best intentions, found he was relaxed as he walked back with Ronan to his cottage. It wasn’t like the villagers would think it strange, he occasionally had visitors up from London, but all the same it felt just wrong to be chatting with this man in broad daylight. He’d lived enough to know such dealings went on in the dark and usually with more nervousness than he was experiencing now.

  Every member of a crew he’d ever dealt with in his life made his hair stand up and his shoulders tense. He was a Liner, after all, used to the buzz and burn of the virtual world. His kind usually got on with Crew like Rottweilers and Siamese cats—but not this guy.

  As they strolled off High Street away from the Green Man they talked about tourists and architecture and the worth of places such as Little Penherem. It was like he had turned some sort of switch that demanded Bakari have no fear of him. He’d heard that such things were possible in the Line, but not in the fleshworld.

  The reached the tiny cottage Bakari’s position earned him in the village and he couldn't help smiling when Ronan complimented him on the granny’s bonnets and lamb’s ear in the front garden. Bakari’s London friends never noticed the flowers.

  Inside was not as pleasant, for he had as yet to develop any interior decorating skills. But Ronan made himself right at home, flopping down on the woebegone couch and flicking one leg over its arm.

  “I’m not going to take it out on you,” he said affably. “You didn’t scope the target well enough, but then again I didn’t behave very… professionally either.”

  Bakari held back any sarcasm he might have felt. Truthfully, he’d been too excited about making contact with Panther and he’d taken it for granted Tania Furlion hadn’t changed security since he’d checked it out a month earlier. He hid his embarrassment with a slight cough. “Well I would Line in and…”

  “Be my guest. It would be good to know what I’m up against in there—but,” he paused, perhaps sizing up how much further to trust Bakari, “I’ll need to do a bit more reconnaissance of my own.”

  “What more could you want?” Bakari hid his surging panic as he fished out his Line from his pocket.

  “There was something about that mask,” Ronan’s face had tightened. “Something unusual. I thought this would be a twenty-four hour job, but it isn’t. I won’t charge you extra if I can doss down here for a couple of nights.”

  That was exactly what Bakari didn’t want, for there was too much about Penherem that might draw his suspicions. But what could he say—Ronan was the only one able to do this particular job.

  “Sure thing,” Bakari smiled, “if you don’t mind the couch.”

  “I’ve slept in worse,” Ronan replied.

  This was going to be tricky. Bakari knew his new houseguest was unfamiliar with the Line, but he had probably picked up the basics.

  “Gimme a few minutes then,” he said. “I should be able to hack the Hall’s security system easily enough—long as they haven’t altered that too.”

  “Take all the time you need,” Ronan tucked his legs up in the couch. “I like to nap during the day anyway.” His eyes were already shut, but that didn’t fool Bakari.

  The Liner rose and walked back into the dimly lit recesses of the bedroom. It was Spartan like the rest of the house, but it contained all he needed; a bed, a lamp, a dog-eared poster of the African savanna as his ancestors might have known it, and his own heavily encoded node. He didn’t know if he could trust that anymore, hence wanting to use Ella’s that morning. But he’d look like a right idiot in front of Ronan if he went off now.

  Bakari sank onto the rumpled but spacious bed. Some preferred the perennial lotus position while they were Lining, thinking it made them look like religious gurus, but he had always preferred to return without strain in his muscles. So, lying flat out on his hedonistically comfortable bed, Bakari plunged into the Line.

  As always there was that flickering moment when the body reluctantly surrendered control of feeling and gave over to the mind. It was a white and gold retina slash that reminded Bakari of looking foolishly into the sun. Rather than phasing into the Second Step he chose to plug straight into Third. Bakari opened his avatar eyes onto the digital world.

  He now wore dark feathers and saw through bright raven eyes. Why exactly his avatar was a bird of death he had never worked out. When he had first walked the Line this was the form his brain conjured.

  The foothills of the local Line rolled away beneath him. Simple looking turf concealed streams of information and consciousness that the initiated could mine. Right now, that was not what Bakari needed.

  Having got his bearings, he dropped back to Second Step. Here, not being fully immersed in the avatar, he was able to access the more mechanical side of Lining. While keeping an eye on the lie of the land, he sketched a control cube. He had his little box of tricks preloaded into this avatar. He selected a seek-and-report bot, a tightly bundled reel of code which was more than enough to break through most government Line security—let alone that of Penherem Hall. He sent it darting on its way, confident it would bring back what he would need to give Ronan.

  That task accomplished, he sketched another cube. This one was to complete his primary purpose for this visit, summoning his contact.

  He re-routed signals through all the channels that he could think of, attempting to outwit any Liner that might be trying to trace him. Bakari was not surprised to find several waiting traps, but they were slap up jobs and his signal easily avoided them without even alerting their controller. None, though, were the dreaded Infinity Rose—a particularly bad Crew he’d ruffled the feathers of two years back. They were known for having long memories when it came to grudges.

  A nano later, the signal was successfully routed and Bakari moved back to Third Step and peered once more out the raven’s eye.

  It only took four nanos for his contact to reach him.

  It appeared over the horizon, a very fast moving object like a long silver dart; not an avatar, but a remote. He’d not expected any different; these people were very careful about revealing their code or their name. They were quite happy to have him out there taking all the risks while they lingered in the shadows.

  The remote, about half the size of his raven avatar, hovered a few feet away with its cherry-red sensor blinking rhythmically atop it. “This communication is outside the designated time interval agreed on.”

  Bakari’s beak snapped. “When something comes up, it’s difficult to stick to a schedule.”

  Whoever was at the other end of the remote took a nano to digest that little acorn of information, perhaps dec
iding if he or she really wanted to know what was happening. “You have the mask?”

  “Not yet, but I should soon.”

  “And Panther?” the remote bobbed up and down as if it was getting mad.

  “He got close. He did feel the effect.”

  “Then perhaps you were right, Vortex.”

  “So you can cut me some more slack.”

  “You’ve already had as much ‘slack’ as we can give.”

  Bakari the raven twitched his wings, making feathers rattle. “If you want results, you’ve got to give me more time.”

  The remote bobbed, for a moment silent. “As long as you remain undetected, that is acceptable. Continue with the plan.”

  He had no choice in the matter—there was no pulling back now. Unfortunately, the devil he’d made his bargain with knew that all too well.

  3

  Moments

  The man's voice was gone. Aroha woke the next morning and felt the emptiness.

  She lay still in the warm cocoon of her bed and listened to Nana quietly moving around the kitchen. It could have been any day, but it wasn’t. As the New Zealanders had slept, utu had invaded quietly and more cunningly than their previous enemy. It was already lying curled and waiting in their bodies. A frightening ally if ever there was one.

  Fighting back an urge to cry, she slipped out of bed and got dressed quickly. Then, rubbing her eyes, she trotted down the worn carpet to the kitchen. Nana had her back turned while she washed something in the sink but she had anticipated her granddaughter's arrival; a jug of milk, a plate and spoon and the box of Weetbix were laid out ready to eat. Aroha slipped into her customary chair and began arranging breakfast in her usual ritual. The trick was in the timing. Pour the milk on and wait too long, and the cereal went soggy. Eat it too soon, and it was just too crackly in the mouth.