by John Meaney
“I know a technical expert. He has a ThD.”
“Ah.” Vilnar sat back in his chair, which subtly curled around him. “The man you got to interrogate the prisoner. The prisoner who went into Basilisk Trance.”
“Yeah, that's a problem. Kyushen was a bit traumatized himself, after causing that. But he did get us the information we needed.”
“Information that resulted in a warrant for my arrest.”
“I know, but that was—”
“All right, Riordan. Who is this Kyushen, and where did you find him?”
“Kyushen Jyu, from St. Jarl's, where I was a patient.”
“Ah. St. Jarl.” Vilnar's gaze shifted left. “That brings back memories.”
“You were there? At the hospital?”
“No, it's just that the Organists worshipped St. Jarl, or claimed to. Before your time.”
“I've heard of them.”
“Uh-huh. They thought that the double meaning of organ was a sacred sign. Thirty-three people had disappeared before we found the Organists’ vaults. They'd turned their victims into musical instruments, poor bastards. Arteries strung into webs of resonance tubes. Bones for structure and percussion. Keyboards formed from fingers.”
“Hades.”
“And the worst thing? When we entered, the music they were playing was lovely. Even the vocals coming through living skulls’ open mouths.”
Donal nodded, saying nothing.
“So I understand something of what you went through.” Vilnar rubbed his face. “With Cortindo, I mean. And here's another thing. That case, taking down the Organists, was what eventually got me this job.”
Further promotion was not something that Donal had dreamed of.
“I'm not a politician,” he said.
“Neither was Laura Steele, before her resurrection.”
Donal went absolutely still.
“People change,” added Vilnar. “Sometimes they find new goals.”
“Before or after we take the Black Circle down?”
“Afterward will do.” Vilnar's blocky face widened as he smiled. “That will do.”
“So what's the first step?”
“You get your Dr. Jyu to come in here and read this book.” Vilnar's gaze swept around the office, lingering on the black drapes at the rear, then on the chair that still held Donal's gun. “I'd rather it didn't leave this room.”
“All right.” Donal checked his watch. “It's still not six A.M. I'll ring him at nine.”
“Fair enough.”
“So why were you in the office this early, Commissioner?”
“Same reason as you.”
“I know, but… ”
If I had Laura, I'd be home with her as much as I could.
Vilnar's gaze seemed to age, becoming ancient.
“My Vera isn't safe if the city is in danger. Perhaps I should just… But I made a choice. I'm going to do my job, protecting real people. The politics and conspiracies are just tools to achieve that.”
Donal stared at him, then held out his hand.
“It's my privilege to work for you, sir.”
Vilnar rose, shook his head, with a tiny smile, then grasped Donal's hand.
“Likewise, Lieutenant. A privilege to work with you.”
They released their grip.
“And if you'll care to hang on to your weapon more tightly in the future”—Vilnar nodded toward the chair—“you might even achieve what you're after.”
“I'll do that.”
“Good. Take it easy, Riordan.”
“And you, sir.”
The chair walked Donal to the door, then extended its arm. Donal thanked it, and retrieved his Magnus, which he holstered. The cil-iaserpents were completely still as the door opened. Donal stepped through.
“Good man,” he heard Vilnar say.
Iron doors slid shut behind him.
Big Viktor leaned back in the hard seat, swaying with the hypotube train's motion, wishing he were in bed. The call had come in at four A.M. Since Commander Bowman had made arrangements with outlying precincts, any phone call that mentioned white wolves was redirected to Bowman, Xalia, or Viktor, regardless of the hour.
The hypotube carriage was almost deserted. It should be, at this time.
Investigating the call, what Viktor had found was an unlicensed young witch, aged ten, whose nightmares manifested as glowing shapes that might look like wolves … to someone with severe myopia and an alcohol problem. Viktor had quieted the neighbor who'd rung in, then followed an apparition as it flitted through grimy, litter-filled backyards, backtracking to the girl's house, where she slept.
He'd served her parents with a summons to take her before a magistrate for registration within the month. They hadn't been happy, but faced with a seven-foot-tall unshaven cop in a battered leather coat, they'd not objected either.
Now Viktor was torn between heading back home or going straight to HQ. The problem with returning to his apartment was waking up after one hour's sleep, when the alarm went off. He decided not to decide until after Coldwell Node, four stops down the line.
At the front of the carriage, facing the rear, sat a slender young woman wearing a cheap, conservative blouse and skirt. Her knees were primly together, her jade-and-lemon eyes downcast. Her pale skin held a hint of scales.
Viktor looked away, aware that a man staring at a lone woman formed a threat, even if unintentional.
Outside the grime-streaked window, the tunnel darkness fell away, replaced by green-white eerie lighting in a near-deserted station. This was North 3009th Street, a long way from the investment banks and luxury department stores of downtown Tristopolis.
The area's shabbiness was matched by the torn clothes of four youths who stumbled on board.
“Morning, you fuckin’ asswipes!”
Laughing, they clattered their way along the carriage and sat down, bottles of spiderapple cider in hand. Viktor supposed it was a step up from antifreeze.
“Gimme that.”
“Fuck you. You got your fuckin’ own, ain't ya?”
The doors shut, and a bang sounded from the train's rear. The station slipped away as the initial pneumatic push caused the train to enter the tunnel proper, where necromagnetic windings induced further acceleration. Here, the tunnel corkscrewed downward.
“You spilled it, asshole!”
The train came out into what looked like open air, where the tunnel was transparent, supported by trelliswork two hundred feet above street level.
“Something's fishy in here, ain't it?”
In a minute, the train would be halting at a skyway station, midway between two old towers with worn, tired gargoyles who rarely flew. Perhaps the four idiots would get off there.
Viktor folded his arms, glanced at the young woman, then looked out the window at the architecture and the deep-purple sky.
“Bet something tastes fishy, if you lick the right spot. What you say, sweetheart?”
The young woman turned her head, staring at the cityscape as Viktor had. Her hands were clasped over her small handbag.
“Fuckin’ A, right?” One of the youths, on his feet now, stumbled past Viktor. “What you say, pal?”
Viktor said nothing.
The other three youths followed their friend's lead. One of them unzipped his trousers as he walked. Then he stopped in front of the young woman, his legs wide against the train's swaying, and reached into his crotch.
“You seen fish swallow?” he said. “Gobble glub, gobble glub.”
“Hey, girl, we'll help you.”
“No, let her.” The one with his legs wide shook his head. “Sweet heart, open up—”
Viktor rose up behind him, leg powering upward with massive force, his shin smashing into the youth's coccyx, instep crushing the testicles. The youth snapped forward. Viktor dropped a hard elbow onto his spine, flattening the bastard.
Before the others could react, Viktor reached cross-handed beneath his coat, and ripped out a
Grauser from under each arm, whipping them upward in an X-shaped motion. Two of the youths staggered back, blood welling from lines cut open in their cheeks.
“You'll pick this idiot up, and haul him off at this stop. Got it?”
“Uh …”
“Sir …”
The train was already slowing for the skyway station.
“Take him home, or throw him over the edge. It's all the same to me. If I see you riding this line again, I'll kill you.”
Shaking, the trio dragged their companion—awkwardly, because they were in pitiful physical condition—to the carriage doors. From lowered eyelids, they glanced toward Viktor no higher than his shins. When the train stopped and doors slid open, they tugged their friend onto the platform.
For a moment, they stood there. Then one of them bolted for the stairs, the other two looked at each other, then followed, leaving their friend facedown on the platform.
Viktor shook his head as the train doors closed.
“Oh, damn.” He turned to the young woman. “You hadn't intended to alight here?”
She answered with a small shake of her head.
“Good, then.” Viktor replaced his twin Grausers in the shoulder holsters. “Sorry about all that.”
Farther back, the only other passenger was sitting with chin on chest, eyes closed. Asleep, or pretending that what he couldn't see wasn't happening.
“Thank you.” When the young woman spoke, her teeth were revealed as a multitude of slender, curved needles. “Although I could have coped.”
“I guess you could.” Viktor grinned at her. “Good for you.”
He returned to his seat.
After the next stop, the hypoway descended underground once more, stopped at the next station, then continued on to Coldwell Node. Viktor and the young woman got off. She nodded to him, then headed for the Orange Line changeover.
Viktor made his way to the Blue Line platforms. As he walked, he decided what to do the minute he reached his apartment: switch off the alarm, then get into bed.
Donal sat alone in the task force office. It was too early for the guys to be here without an operation in progress; but the thing was, recently he'd seen very little of anyone, at any time.
Harald was doing something for Commander Bowman, Donal thought. He and Harald hadn't had much direct conversation since Laura's death.
He set me up to be killed in the Power Center.
But afterward, when Donal had been about to die in Gelbthorne's house, the armored doors had blown inward, and there was Harald, hexzooka on his shoulder, accompanied by his bone motorcycle, a Phantasm IV The Phantasm had fought off the mansion's guardian daemosaur, while Illurian armored police poured in to secure the place.
Donal had no problem with Harald; but perhaps Harald was still upset by his own earlier actions. He'd taken Xalia's suspicions as proof that Donal was a Black Circle snitch.
So, Xalia. Donal hadn't seen the wraith member of the team either. His intuition was that she'd been more seriously injured than she'd let on, trying to penetrate the upper floors’ defenses here in HQ, attempting to get the goods on the commissioner, whom she'd suspected.
I'll ask Gertie.
It wasn't just that Gertie was the friendliest wraith he knew. She seemed to have more knowledge than anyone else about what went on here.
And what of the other team members? Sushana was still out, recovering from her ordeal when Sally the Claw's organization had figured out she was an undercover cop, not the halfway-talented sorceress she'd pretended to be. She wasn't back on any kind of duty yet. If she ever returned, Donal suspected it would be to work behind a desk.
Alexa Ceerling … Well, he knew what had happened to her. He supposed she was still in the Customer Relationship Bureau, engaged in bright conversation with civilians on the line, smiling hard.
Viktor Harman was the remaining team member. Good, dependable, and hard as a bastard. He'd almost rescued Sushana single-handed, clearing the defenses so that when Laura and Xalia turned up, they'd been able to finish the job. It would be good to have him fully on board once more.
Donal realized he was thinking like a leader, although Commissioner Vilnar had not said anything specific about reviving the team. The thing was, if it was to continue as a federal operation, they would need authorization from the guy that Bowman had mentioned, Special Agent Morrison.
He checked his watch. Still not seven o'clock.
Too early.
But he picked up his desk phone anyway—his black telephone—and spun all the combination wheels to zero, connecting him with an operator.
*Can I help you?*
“Please put me through to St.-Jarl-the-Healer Hospital.”
*To the main switchboard?*
“Yes, please.” When the hospital switchboard answered, Donal gave his name. “And could I speak with Dr. Jyu, please? Kyushen Jyu, that's right.”
It was nearly three minutes before a familiar voice sounded on the line.
“Hello? Jyu here.”
“Hey, Dr. Jyu. Kyushen. It's Donal Riordan.”
“Oh. Lieutenant.”
“How are things with you?”
“All … right.”
Donal smiled. “I could do with some technical advice.”
“Er, Lieutenant—”
“Call me Donal.”
“Donal, I can't do it again. I'm sorry.”
“There's no interrogation involved. I need you to take a look at a technical manual.”
There was a swirling silence.
“It's about multihex something, and parasympathetic algorithms. Top secret. Foreign.”
“You mean parasympathetic encryption algorithms? Like mind control?”
“Huh.” Donal laughed. “You do understand this stuff.”
“What is this manual?”
“I'd rather not say what it's called. It can't leave Police HQ, I'm afraid. Which also means, you're going to be the only thaumaturgical engineer in the country to read it.”
“Oh. Hades.”
“What?”
“We're doing a major upgrade to the death support equipment in Terminal Ward One. I can't leave today.”
“So when can you come?”
“Tomorrow. First thing.”
“Good. Ask for me at the front desk.”
“Yes, I'll… I still think about him. About Dilvox.”
“I know.”
“There was no excuse for me to … Ah, I'll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant. Donal.”
“Tomorrow.”
Donal put the phone down.
I manipulated him well, didn't I?
Perhaps there were some things it was not good to be good at. What was it Commissioner Vilnar had said?
“People change. Sometimes they find new goals.”
No. Revenge was still his only objective.
I'm going to get them, Laura.
And now he had new tools and new abilities to help him take the bastards down.
Harald came into the office, followed by a bulky man who was in the process of removing his shades, revealing stone sniper's eyes. Donal had seen the man on the day he joined the task force, but not since.
“I don't suppose you remember Kresham,” said Harald.
“Sure I do.” Donal shook Kresham's hand. “But I don't know who you're with. Anti-Ensorcellment?”
“Robbery-Haunting. Pel Bowman's crew.”
“Commander Bowman's sort of in charge of us now, for the time being.”
“I heard.”
Harald was putting two black folders down on his desk. As he opened a drawer to place them inside, Donal noticed the small indigo logo, then snapped his gaze to Kresham's features, then Harald's. Neither man was grinning, not like Alexa.
“Have you two been making phone calls?”
Gentle eyes stared at stone eyes, then Harald and Kresham turned toward Donal.
“Why, have you?” asked Harald.
Donal could see the controlled tension
building in Kresham's big hands.
“Yeah. The telephones in Customer Relations are that color.” He pointed to the logo. “I mean, right here in this building.”
“And you used one?”
“It doesn't affect people like me,” said Donal, deliberately staring at Laura's name, still inscribed on the door to the empty commander's office. “Although they appeared not to realize that. I smiled like an idiot until I left the room.”
“Balls,” said Kresham. “Inside HQ? No wonder we're doing this hush-hush.”
Harald was still focused on Donal.
“You felt no effects?”
“No, but I saw what it did to everyone else. So where were you two? Another precinct?”
“Ordinary houses in Lower Halls, near where you used to live. Mostly older people, willing to try a new, cheaper service. And at home all day.”
“Easier to be there when the engineers call,” said Kresham.
“So was everyone grinning like a moron?”
“They were happy,” answered Harald. “And very healthy. I mean, the usual old folks’ ailments had cleared up. They all said it was a wonderful coincidence.”
“Coincidence,” muttered Kresham.
“Right.” Donal thought about Harald's history with the Marines. “You had special forces trance-training.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And … ?”
“No, I did not try to entrance any of the victims. Something that powerful, when you don't understand how the changes were induced, you don't mess with on your own.” Harald sat on the edge of his desk. “You want me to risk a civilian falling into Basilisk Trance? Under interrogation, I might trigger a fractal amnesia command, wiping out everything.”
Donal thought of Kyushen Jyu, and the Basilisk Trance he'd induced in the prisoner Dilvox thanks to the deep-tracing tools he'd used. Such a trance was legally the same as death.
So do I tell them about Alexa?
“You did the right thing. I saw the commissioner in person.” Donal wanted to add that he'd punched Commissioner Vilnar in the neck, but stopped himself: the Old Man needed his hard-boiled reputation. “He's obviously running Bowman on this one.”
Harald nodded, which Donal took to be a good sign, indicating no more suspicion hanging over the commissioner.