Dead Air

by Jak Koke

  Stoney rushed it.

  The air creature turned to flee, but Maria created a mana barrier to prevent its escape. The elemental slammed into the barrier and stopped.

  Stoney loomed up behind it, swallowing it in an embrace of flowing concrete and jutting steel.

  The air elemental turned and attacked, but it was no match for Stoney. The city spirit pressed the elemental against the mana barrier until it spread along the barrier like a stain—thin and white. The elemental tried one last time to break through, but it was weakened, and in a moment the creature was gone. Disrupted.

  Stoney turned toward Maria, smiling.

  "Thank you," Maria said. "Your task is complete." Stoney disappeared.

  Maria dropped the mana barrier and turned from the entrance and flew back into the condoplex. She searched the whole structure and found no one. The place was deserted, except for the guards who must have been there to prevent any residents from risking their lives trying to get back in. Probably hired by the insurance company, she thought.

  She dropped quickly back into her meat body, feeling her chest rise and fall. Her heart beating firmly. She opened her eyes. "There are two guards in front," she said. "I got rid of a watcher and an air elemental, but nobody else is home. It looks like the fire crews left no more than two or three hours ago." Dougan gave her a hand up. "Any dead bodies inside?" Maria stretched again, and took a deep breath. "Not anymore, but I’m pretty sure some people died in the explosion. I can’t be positive, but the aura of the place read moderately high background."

  Bob Henry laughed.

  "Yeah," Maurice said, slapping Bob Henry on the back. "You hear that? Aura read moderately high background. Whatever the frag that means." His laugh rolled from his chest like a freight train.

  "Shut up," Dougan said. "Time to toss this place." He lifted some sort of shotgun into the crook of his elbow.

  "Why?" Maurice said. "What if Grids Desmond is one of the dead? What if the explosion took out him and the chip?"

  "Guess again, chummer," Dougan said. "The news said two people died in the blast, and their names were mentioned. Neither was Grids Desmond."

  "Too bad."

  "Maria," Dougan said, "can you still do that trick of finding people using personal items?"

  Maria sighed. "I suppose so," she said. "But the items have to be fresh."

  "Null persp," Dougan said. "We’ll find something. Okay, chummers, let’s scale this puppy."

  Less than an hour later, they had scoured apartment number seven in silence, cloaked by Owl’s invisibility. The four of them were black from soot and sweaty from the effort, but the take was better than Maria had hoped.

  Bob Henry had found a man’s razor in the bathroom, seemingly untouched by the fire. Dougan had discovered some holopics in the closet, mostly intact. Three of them showed both Grids and Tamara. Plus, from the dirty laundry, Maurice had pulled some dirty underwear complete with tiny strands of pubic hair.

  That was the best prospect, if the samples weren’t too old. If the detection ritual works, Maria thought, I’ll have Grids Desmond by the short hairs—quite literally.

  28

  Jonathon’s zen had all but dissipated by the time he pulled the Nightsky into the hidden drive of Chico’s place. The anger threatened to return, but it seemed weak. Tired.

  And as he stopped the car and jacked out, he took a look at what the assault had done to the limo. Shards of glass littered the seat and floor, tiny odd-shaped fragments that weren’t sharp but stuck to flesh like large sand grains. The air in the car reeked of blood iron, so strong that Jonathon could almost taste it. Splatters of blood soaked the seat and the floor under Grids.

  Grids himself sat in silence, breath rasping, his face ash-gray. Behind him, the trid console was dented and streaked with blood.

  Venny shifted slowly in the front seat. Jonathon saw only the blurred shape of the huge troll’s back through the separating glass. He had no idea what injuries Venny had sustained, but it looked like he could hardly move.

  Then Jonathon’s gazed settled on Synthia. Lines of exhaustion creased the corners of her eyes and wrinkled her forehead, but she was looking straight at him with her denim blue eyes. Her gaze intent, unrelenting. She would require an explanation.

  She deserved an explanation. So did Venny. What kind of drek have I dragged them into ? Jonathon wondered. Even I don’t know.

  "We should be safe here," he said to fill the silence.

  "For a while."

  Synthia released his gaze, then pointed at Grids. "He needs a doctor."

  Jonathon nodded.

  Grids didn’t move.

  "I know a good street man," Venny said. "Or maybe you could get Ducky to look at him."

  Jonathon thought about it. Would the team’s trainer know enough surgery to patch up Grids? Maybe, but it would be risky to let anyone know their location. "We can’t take any chances," he said. "We need someone who doesn’t know us and can’t reveal where we are."

  Synthia broke in. "Why? What’s this all about? Why are we hiding out? And why did those thugs attack us? They were professionals. Not some random gang-bangers out for a joy ride."

  Jonathon frowned. "I’ll tell you everything as soon as we get inside."

  "You sure will," she said.

  Jonathon climbed out of the limo. His legs wobbled under him as he walked around to help Venny pull Grids from the other side. Behind him Synthia stood and brushed herself off.

  Jonathon nearly fainted when he saw Venny. The troll had been hit at least ten or fifteen times. Some of those hits had been stopped by his body armor, but several places were crusted with dried blood.

  "Don’t look so worried, chummer," Venny said. "It’s not the first time I’ve been in a fire fight." The troll hefted Grids’s nearly unconscious body over his massive shoulder and started inside.

  Jonathon hurried to beat him to the door. The drive ended at a short cobblestone pathway that wound through some trees and overgrown brush to the front door of the house. Jonathon had to fight some of the bushes to get through. "Gardener’s been on vacation," he said.

  Venny laughed. "As long as the maid is still here," he said. "I hate washing dishes."

  Jonathon smiled. At least Venny seemed to be taking the situation in stride. He even seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. Maybe he liked action better than waiting for action.

  The front of Chico’s house looked like a modest, singlestory white structure with a flat roof, but because of the steep slope of the hillside only the top floor was accessible from the front. There were two more stories below this one.

  Jonathon listened at the door to make sure nobody else had decided to borrow the place. He heard nothing.

  Synthia came up behind them. "I’ve already scouted out the house astrally," she said. "Nobody’s home."

  Jonathon nodded. "Thanks."

  She gave him one of her half-smiles, which meant either she was half amused or half irked. Jonathon guessed the latter.

  The door opened with the correct five-digit code that Jonathon had, fortunately, tucked away in his head memory. And they were in, smelling the must and the mold of years of disuse. Still, the place wasn’t in such bad shape. It had power and running water; Chico must have had a custodial account set up to keep the utilities going for emergencies. Just like this. The pool hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, and was host to a vibrant algae population, but the deck gave a great view of downtown LA. Hollywood, Century City, the Arcology Mile. Even the hint of the ocean in the distant haze on the right.

  Chico had been a man of exotic taste. His music collection rivaled the most anal of connoisseurs, especially stuff from the 1970s and ’80s. And some newer tunes that recreated the same sounds with polycorders and synthlinks.

  Mirrors adorned nearly every wall and ceiling, reflecting the deep, deep shag of the burnt orange carpet so that it seemed to stretch for kilometers in every direction. And there were the paintings of sunflowers and psychede
lic swirls of color in the shapes of mushrooms and human faces.

  "Strange chummer lives here," Venny said, setting Grids down on a green couch in the room with the trideo. "I’ll call the street doc," he said. "Unless Synthia thinks he won’t need it."

  Synthia frowned, a sad look on the delicate features of her face. "I think the bullet went clean through," she said. "I’ve healed the wound, but I’m no doctor. He still might get an infection."

  Venny nodded. "I’ll call him."

  While the troll spoke on the telecom, Synthia grabbed Jonathon’s arm and took him out by the pool. He’d never seen her this insistent. This slotted off.

  The last remnants of the sunset glowed a faint red behind the layers of smog to the west, the glimmer giving an edge of crimson to the sleek black glass of the MCT arcology. The Mitsuhama building was the closest structure of the Arcology Mile. Its black needle towered over the slums of East Hollywood to one side and central LA around the corner.

  "Look at me, Jonathon."

  He turned to see her, eyes hard as ice. The flowing summer dress she’d worn on the plane was splattered all over with Grids’s blood, and torn in myriad places from glass shards. "I’m sorry, Syn," he said. "I didn’t mean for you to get involved."

  "Well, I am involved, Jonathon. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?"

  So he told her about the telecom message from Grids and about the simsense Tamara had made of her and Andreas Michaelson. He told her about the Magus File and what they knew of it, which he realized was nearly nothing. "I had no idea we’d be tracked down so soon," he said. "I never meant to get you into this."

  "It’s too late for that, isn’t it?"

  Jonathon nodded. "I’m sorry, Syn. I don’t know what to do."

  "You could have been honest with me up front."

  "I know." Jonathon went to explaining that the hiss in his head seemed to be growing, that it was driving him to find out why Tamara was killed. Like an obsession. He had to figure out how Dougan Rose and Andreas Michaelson were connected.

  All the while she listened intently. Surprise and fear giving way to concern for him. Her gaze grew softer as he spoke.

  Synthia had to know she couldn’t go home without risking further assault. "Those were shadowrunners, all pro," she said. "If they were targeting Grids, and perhaps you because they traced his call to you, then they’ve also gathered as much data as possible on anyone associated with you two. I am known to be your . . . girlfriend. You aren’t a very low-profile personality."

  "I know."

  "But even if I could go home, I wouldn’t. I’m in this now, too."

  Jonathon said nothing.

  She looked at him, blue eyes tender now. "I know how much she meant to you," she said. "That’s why I want to help. And because . . ."

  Jonathon couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  "Because if I ever lost you, I would do the same." She came in close to him, putting her arms under his, encircling his body. Nuzzling his chest.

  Jonathon turned to watch the lights of the city in the distance. He sighed, clutching Synthia’s body to his.

  After a minute, Venny opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the patio. "I’m taking Grids to the doc now," he said. "I’ve got a taxi on the way. I told the driver to pick us up down the street. He’s an old chummer and very discreet. After, we’ll swing by Grids’s hideout to get his simsense gear. He keeps mumbling about it." Jonathon nodded. "Any chance you can get the Westwind or the Jag from home?"

  "I’ve already got that scoped," Venny said. "Hired an old samurai buddy to steal the Westwind and drive it into the plex. I’ve given him the lock code, the one that makes the combination cycle. Don’t worry, even if I didn’t trust him, which I do, the code will only work once. He’ll meet us at the clinic in the Valley where we’re going."

  "Good plan, Venny. Thanks."

  Venny just shrugged it off, but Jonathon knew they were lucky to have the troll’s experience. Jonathon had thought of some of the same things, but not all of them. And he certainly didn’t have Venny’s contacts to call upon. "Just promise me you won’t leave," the troll said. "Neither one of you. Stay here until I get back."

  "How long?"

  "Three or four hours."

  "We promise," Jonathon said, looking at Synthia. "Don’t we?"

  She squeezed him tight. "I’m sure we can think of something to pass the time."

  "And I’ll even go shopping for some chow." Venny smiled as he turned and left, sliding the door closed behind him.

  When he was gone, Synthia straightened up and pressed her lips against Jonathon’s, holding the kiss for a long breath. "Let’s find a bed," Synthia said.

  Nearly an hour later, after soaking together in the huge jacuzzi tub filled to the brim with scalding hot water, they found the kingsize waterbed beneath a mirrored ceiling. They put clean silk sheets on it, and climbed in together. Tired and sore, but unwilling to release each other from the embrace.

  They rolled and moved together, and Jonathon soon lost himself to the rhythm of their dance. Lost himself to the tickle of her hair, the softness of her white breasts. The roughness of her teeth against his chest. The scratch of her nails on his back.

  He danced the edge with her. Balancing on the delicate and taut tight rope of orgasm.

  Until finally . . .

  Over the edge. Falling . . . falling.

  Into the afterglow came the warm evening breeze, carrying the smell of fire and the distant sounds of the city. And closer, the sweet smell of her body, hot against his. The soft sound of her breathing.

  He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. At the shadowy reflection of them in the dark. She put her head into the crook of his shoulder and kissed his cheek. Minutes passed and exhaustion pulled him toward sleep. It seemed like years since he’d last slept.

  "I know something about the Magus Factor," Synthia said suddenly.

  Her words hung in the darkness, solid entities that refused to be carried off by the breeze.

  "What?"

  "The Magus Factor," she said. "Didn’t you tell me the file Tamara copied said something about it?"

  "What do you know?"

  "It’s a genetic explanation for magic," she said. "I’ve read some about it. Scientists believe that the ability to channel magical energies is genetic. They call it the Magus Factor." She shifted to stare at the ceiling. "But not much is known about which genes are involved. At least not much is publicly known."

  "Maybe Saeder-Krupp is conducting research into it," Jonathon said.

  "No doubt. Perhaps they’ve located some ... what did that title say? Loci. Genetic loci that are tied with magical ability. It’s a scary prospect, ’cause if anyone figures it out, they could manufacture magi just by giving an unborn child the right genes. Or they could try experiments like putting more than one copy of the crucial locus into someone, hoping to get a super mage. Who knows what the frag they’re up to."

  Jonathon nodded agreement. Nobody could ever predict what a megacorp might have up its sleeve.

  "One thing’s for certain," Synthia said. "If that file has details on S-K research into the Magus Factor, it’s no wonder Tamara was killed. And now we’re in the same game."

  29

  The rocky cliffs over Topanga Canyon proved a difficult landing site for Dougan, but he finally managed to bring the four Nightgliders in with only one incident. Bob Henry’s glider caught a wing against a young eucalyptus tree, tearing a wide gash in the fabric.

  Maria unbuckled herself from the wing as soon as her feet touched the ground. Midnight rapidly approached, and she wanted to get going. She needed to use the medicine lodge of her old mentor, Teresa Darkhunter. Her own lodge was back in San Bernardino, and they didn’t have the time to make that trip. The ritual itself would take several hours.

  "You should remain here," she told the others. "Teresa won’t welcome us all."

  Dougan’s dark face nodded in the dim mo
onlight. "Right," he said. "I’ll work on fixing the wing on Bob Henry’s Nightglider. How long you gonna take?"

  "I’m not certain. Two hours at least, maybe as much as four or five."

  "Well, we’ll be waiting for you," Dougan told her, then went off to work on the torn wing.

  Maurice was seated on the ground, his back leaning against a large sandstone boulder and his eyes closed. Bob Henry did the same.

  Maria stretched for a minute, then started toward the grove of giant eucalyptus trees that held Teresa’s lodge, picking her way through the sandstone rocks and the thorny chaparral underbrush. Topanga Canyon was essentially desert, though its proximity to the ocean kept it more humid than most deserts, providing enough airborne water for chaparral and some succulents like icicle plant.

  Maria entered the grove of giant eucalyptus, noticing the watcher spirit at the base of the trees wink out. Then a nature spirit appeared to block her way. It looked like a boulder of solid rock, except that it flexed and moved and had bits of plantlike material which appeared on its surface, traveling across the rocky skin for a moment before being absorbed back into the creature. The trees behind the spirit bent slightly toward it, almost as though deferring to its judgment.

  Maria waited. The cool breeze ruffled the feathers adorning her unibody as she stood stock still. Not afraid, but not daring to pass.

  Then Teresa manifested. She was brown-skinned like Maria, black hair cut to the shoulders, dark eyes. But she was older by ten or fifteen years. Maria could see tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, even though she knew this wasn’t Teresa’s physical body, but a manifestation of her astral projection.

  "Maria, my child," Teresa said. "It has been many nights. Years of nights since I’ve seen you." The older woman gave Maria a warm smile.

  At the age of nine, Maria had been taken from her family in Mazatlan to live in the teocalli pyramid in Ensenada. And, three years later, it was Teresa who’d saved her from death at the hands of the priests. Teresa had kidnapped her and fled to California where Jesse was living.