Black Blood

by John Meaney

  “Sir?”

  “I'd like to get to City Hall in plenty of time. You're traveling with me, remember.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Donal looked around the office, nodded to the black visitor's chair—it tipped its back in return—at the brass orrery and the coffee tray beside it. There must be confidential files in here, but it was obvious that Kyushen would not be alone after Donal and the Old Man had left. He would simply be the only human in the room.

  “Let's go.” When Commissioner Vilnar reached the inner door, the ciliaserpents stretched out to brush his skin—a gesture that normally accompanied the delivery of neurotoxin. “Don't worry, I'll be fine.”

  He stepped through, and Donal followed, happy that the ciliaser-pents drew back from him. As he and the commissioner passed along the short exit tunnel, there was a sense of movement and preparation inside the walls, as though inner defenses were arming themselves. The jagged-toothed doors opened, Donal followed the commissioner into the Surveillance Department, and the doors clamped shut behind him.

  They walked past the monitors and out to the elevator shafts.

  “Commissioner? Is everything all right?”

  “That question already assumes things aren't. Which means I'm beginning to have hope for you, Lieutenant.” Commissioner Vilnar pointed to shaft 7, which was dark and therefore not in use. “If you get back from City Hall before I do, check up on Gertie, will you?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “I need to see Commander Bowman for a brief chat. I'll join you down in the parking garage.”

  The Commissioner stepped into shaft 9, and descended from sight.

  “Huh.” Donal waited for the next shaft to brighten, then stepped inside. “Hey, Freda. How's it going?”

  *Good. Which floor?*

  “Parking garage, please.”

  *All right.*

  The wraith began the descent smoothly.

  “What's up with Gertie, Freda? Do you know?”

  *Wraiths’ problems.*

  “Excuse me?”

  He was dropping faster now.

  *There are some things we don't like to discuss.*

  “Oh. I beg your pardon.”

  *Ask me again tomorrow.*

  “Right.”

  The deceleration was harder than usual, for Freda. She propelled him out onto a gray landing.

  “Thank—”

  Freda was already gone.

  “—you.”

  Donal frowned at the elevator shaft, then headed into the garage, where maintenance mechanics were working on several cruisers. Two purple golems were holding a car above their heads, while a human engineer inspected the exhaust.

  A wraith swirled out of the chassis.

  The suspension is shot as well.*

  “No surprise. Take a look at that.”

  *We'll need to replace the whole thing.*

  “You're telling me. What do these guys do with their vehicles?”

  Part of Donal was tempted to tell them, but they probably already knew. Some people like to complain.

  “Hey, Sam.” He stopped by the window of the supervisor's office. “How's life with you?”

  “Great, Lieutenant.” The gray-skinned man looked up from the grease-stained manual he was reading. “You need a cruiser to take you to City Hall?”

  “How come you know everything that happens around here, Sam?”

  “Need to have your finger on the pulse, don't ya? I keep telling these guys”—with a wave toward the engineers and golems—“that it's sensitivity that keeps machinery working. But do they get it?”

  “Could be you should read 'em poetry,” said Donal. “Maybe paint the walls pink. Get a record player and have some opera playing. Like that.”

  “Uh-huh. I'm glad you're taking my predicament seriously, Lieutenant Riordan. So, what about that car?”

  “Don't need it, my good man. I am riding with the commissioner in his very own official limousine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hades, Sam. Piss on my parade, why don't you?”

  “Sorry. But have you met the Old Man's driver?”

  “Can't say that I have.”

  “Well, see, come and tell me afterward what a bundle of laughs he is, and I'll tell you how lucky you were to spend time with him.”

  “I'm not sure I understand.”

  “See? That's why I do what I do, and you're just a lowly lieutenant, sir.”

  “No one in his right mind would have my job, for sure. Take it easy, Sam.”

  “You too. And say hello to the mayor for me.”

  “I'll be sure to do that.”

  Donal went through the service area into the special-vehicles section, a part of the garage he had rarely been inside. Scanfields played across his skin, and he walked past two signs reading Danger: High-Tension Hex, and into a half-lit section of parking bays. There was only one car here: Commissioner Vilnar's limousine. It rode low on its suspension, as armored vehicles do.

  The driver got out. A gray uniform draped his tall form, and unusual shades—heavy, curved, and dark-blue—covered his eyes.

  He doesn't have any.

  It was a strange thought to have.

  Say what?

  Yet Donal was absolutely certain.

  Take off his glasses and you'll see something, but you won't see eyes.

  There was a sense of presence about the man. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the shadowed surroundings, that made Donal think of his confrontation with Malfax Cortindo among the subterranean reactor piles.

  “My name is Lamis. Pleased to meet you, Donal Riordan.”

  “Yeah. Likewise.”

  “Have you ever seen a mountainous landscape, Lieutenant?”

  “Uh … yes, I have. That's a strange question.”

  “People talk about rising to a new peak when they undergo personal change. But really, it's better to think of descending to a new valley. To a stable low-energy configuration.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You must have studied basic thaumodynamics. Systems fall to the lowest energy configuration available to them in their current context.”

  Donal stood in place, subtly lowering his center of gravity, gathering himself.

  “I also learned how to communicate with people. How about you, Lamis?”

  “Ah. But I sense you're in an unstable equilibrium, that's the thing. As if you're on a mountain peak, and there are several different ways you could tumble down.”

  “You're telling me life's uncertain?”

  “Something like that. Also that you're changing inside, if you haven't already worked it out.”

  “Very fucking funny. I've been a zombie for a matter of weeks. And you're a real bunch of laughs, Chuckles.”

  “I was renowned for my sense of humor, Lieutenant.”

  “You've got to be joking.”

  “But not recently. I'm talking ancient history.”

  “Now you are having a laugh.”

  “Am I?” Lamis's expression was hard, formed of shadows and stony lines. “As I said, it's been some time.”

  Suddenly, there was movement behind Donal. He turned.

  “Gentlemen.” The bulky figure of Commissioner Vilnar was standing there. “Are you getting to know each other?”

  “We're bosom pals already,” said Donal.

  Lamis silently bowed his head, then climbed inside the limo and pulled the driver's door shut.

  “Isn't he supposed to hold the door open for us?” Donal asked.

  “Lamis?” A broad smile stretched across Commissioner Vilnar's face, and then he chuckled. “No, not Lamis. He doesn't do that.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “That would be telling. Now, get inside, Lieutenant. We've a ceremony to go to.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the great skull building of City Hall, perhaps a third of the way up the cranial interior, Detective-Two Orla Gilarney was walking along an interior balcony, sta
ring down at the near-deserted atrium, anticipating the swirling mass of bureaucrats and politicians and reporters who would soon infest the place.

  The small flashlight in her inside pocket was a gift from her father on her promotion to D-Two. A practical present. Held in her fist, it could become a weapon. He'd told her that getting Grade Two was a big step up, but she shouldn't forget the streets she came from.

  But he hadn't said she'd be playing minder to a politicians’ circus. City Hall was an interesting place, but Gilarney wanted real work, an actual case to grab hold of. She was a detective. Instinctively, she glanced over the wall-mounted weapons and banners, and checked the big, muscular uniformed officer who was guarding the entrance to Third Corridor.

  “Hey, Brodowski.” She knew both brothers’ names, but not how to tell them apart. “You staying alert there?”

  “Yes, Detective. Things are quiet.”

  Behind Brodowski, a plainclothes man from the 83rd nodded.

  “Nothing suspicious,” he said. “Apart from maybe the food in the main hall. You seen those little squirmy things on sticks?”

  Gilarney kept her smile inside.

  “Forget the food. Keep alert.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  She walked past him, into the gloomy corridor he'd just exited. As she neared a large display case, she pulled the flashlight from her pocket and thumbed it on. The necrotonic battery should be almost fully charged; but when she directed the light toward the display's interior, the bulb dimmed to a soft orange, then went out.

  “Thanatos damn it.” She shook the flashlight. “Cheap Illurian crap.”

  Putting the flashlight away, she leaned close to the glass. Nothing suspicious was visible.

  “Huh. All right.”

  She returned to the corridor entrance, where Brodowski and the plainclothes were still standing.

  “Where's your brother, Brodowski?”

  “Pulled admin duty, poor bastard.”

  “Maybe he's the lucky one,” murmured the plainclothes.

  Gilarney shook her head, although she understood the guy's feelings. Soon enough, down in the foyer and inside the main hall, there would be a blossoming of egos, a hot-air fest with much mouthing of loud, calculating falsehoods and self-serving tales. The commissioner and that lieutenant—Riordan, that was it—would be in among the high-flying crowd, smiling and shaking hands, working the slimy crowd.

  To be fair, there was something she hated more than politicians: has-been cops pretending to be politicians.

  “Keep watching, guys.”

  She touched the weapon holstered high on her hip. Then she headed for the stairs, determined to check out the main hall, in and out—ingress and egress, as they'd drummed into her at the Academy—and the people walking there. She'd always been thorough.

  The whole circus made her sick; but she had a job to do.

  Donal sat straight-backed in the rear of Commissioner Vilnar's limousine. Up front, Lamis had sure control of the heavy vehicle, taking it quickly along the dark helical tunnel that was pretty much the commissioner's private route into and out of HQ. Inside the tunnel, strange forms rotated in shadows, and Donal caught glimpses of twisted geometries beyond normal dimensions, as if he could almost see into the wraith continuum.

  “There are more safeguards here,” said the commissioner, “than you can sense.”

  “Shame those safeguards don't extend to the officers who report to you.”

  After a moment, the commissioner said: “You're thinking about Alexa Ceerling.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have my word, she's undergoing scans this morning. What ever it takes to rehabituate her, the Department will make sure it happens.”

  Donal remembered his own time in Rehabituation in St. Jarl's: the painful re-knitting of mind and body, restoring old neural patterns as his injuries healed.

  “Rehab isn't trivial.”

  “I know.” Commissioner Vilnar flexed his right hand, and his voice grew distant. “I do know.”

  Outside, flat white sparks flew through the viscous air. Donal realized they were driving through some kind of hex field, but not a kind he was familiar with.

  “The geodesic gets interesting,” added the commissioner. “I mean the line of least resistance through the defenses.”

  “What do you—?” Donal stopped as he realized the car was upside down, hurtling along what should have been the ceiling. “I see what you mean. But I've a different kind of question for you.”

  “Really.” There was a faint smile on the commissioner's blocky face. “I see you're not perturbed by sudden shifts in gravity.”

  “No. And neither are you. What about the rest of the task force, Commissioner? What have you gotten them into?”

  For a moment, no one could speak, as the hex field howled inside the car as well as outside. Then Lamis steered through the energy-maelstrom, and was directing the car up an ordinary straight ramp, leading to the street.

  “You mean, have I potentially sacrificed them, the way I did Alexa? The answer's no.”

  “That's what I meant.”

  “You don't sound reassured.”

  “I'm not.” Donal stared at the commissioner's face. “Because I can't tell whether you're telling the truth.”

  “Ah.” The commissioner glanced at the partition separating them from Lamis. “Despite your new abilities.”

  In the rearview mirror, Donal thought he saw Lamis's reflection shift, and an unsettling grin stretch across that sepulchral face.

  “I haven't seen much of my colleagues recently,” said Donal. “Until now, I assumed they were taking downtime by themselves, given the opportunity. But I suspect you have them working on something.”

  “They're reporting to Commander Bowman, as are you, in theory.”

  “And Pel Bowman does what you tell him to, sir.”

  “So you're calling me sir again. It's nice to get some respect.”

  “I'm not in the m—”

  “My apologies, Riordan. With all the subterfuge, sometimes I get too hung up on playing games.” The commissioner looked at his right hand. “Life used to be simpler.”

  “And I used to have one.”

  “A life? Ha.” The commissioner gestured, and the driver's partition and all the windows grew solid black. “So, consider this a form of briefing. What do you know about Mayor Dancy's policies and alliances?”

  “Not much.”

  “In your self-interest, you might want to change that. The City Council now has a lot of Unity Party members, some occupying key positions.”

  “And the mayor's one of them?”

  “Actually, he's the city's main chance of holding them back. So how good are you at memorizing names?”

  “Try me.”

  “All right. First, let me tell you the businessmen and -women who still support Mayor Dancy. The richest is—”

  Commissioner Vilnar reeled off a list of names, their attitudes and assets, their points of weakness, and their probable alliances. He briefed Donal on the good guys first, then the Unity Party activists, including several prominent industrialists who had made no public proclamation of their allegiance to the party. Donal wondered how the commissioner had come by the information, but had no opportunity to ask as he tried to process the sequential auditory data into some kind of mental model he might remember.

  At some point, he realized he'd constructed an imaginary castle in his mind, and the suits of armor and shields and other artifacts bore names—a mustachioed chess piece called Alfredo King, an old sofa with curved arms labeled Sophie Armitage—so that he could imagine himself walking around, seeing the objects and touching them. It was a visual/tactile catalog of everything the commissioner was telling him. A part of Donal's mind was astounded at what he was doing.

  Then the limo's internal partition descended.

  “It's ten minutes to ten, and we're nearly there.” Lamis's voice sounded as if it were right beside Donal's ear, although t
he man was still up front. “Two blocks to Möbius Park.”

  “You'll need to prepare yourself,” the commissioner told Donal. “This is going to be an ordeal, but you're tough enough to take it.”

  “The scanwraiths?”

  “No, I mean the journalists. And remember, when a camera points at you, look happy. A big, cheesy grin is what we want.”

  “Hades.”

  In the front seat, Lamis chuckled, a sound like ice cubes spilling over knucklebones.

  What am I doing here?

  Donal placed his hand over his zombie heart. Under his left arm, the familiar Magnus was solid.

  “And Riordan? Don't shoot any reporters.”

  “I'll do my best not to.”

  “Unless it's Carlsen from the Gazette. I've never liked his stuff.”

  “I thought he was a sportswriter.”

  “He is. Did you see what he wrote about the Spiders losing last week's game?”

  In a gallery inside City Hall, inside a display case, there was a subtle shifting of fabric. Under the chameleon shroud, the assassin's eyes were open. Now, still lying in place, he commenced a series of subtle exercises designed to lubricate his joints, awaken his tendons, and ready himself for fast, fluid motion.

  Sections of narrow rod set into his skintight suit—one rod along the back of his right triceps, another along his forearm—and the narrow, hard rectangle set across his shoulder blades, did nothing to hamper the sophisticated biokinetic routine.

  The assassin smiled.

  Alexa was sitting with her legs crossed, her exam crammer in her handbag, her stare unfocused, a soft smile on her face.

  At three minutes to ten, a white door opened, and a gray-haired doctor beckoned. For a moment Alexa thought he meant her, and she uncrossed her legs, preparing to stand. But a heavyset man, a uniformed sergeant, was already on his feet, heading for the medical room.

  “How have you been, Sergeant?”

  “Much better, Doc. I did like you told me, and—”

  The door closed on them.

  “Never mind,” murmured Alexa. “I'm happy just relaxing here.”

  There was only one other patient sitting in the reception area: a thin plainclothes guy who Alexa didn't recognize, reading a book he'd picked up from the low table. From here it looked like a cookbook, which made her smile. There were back-copies of Ambush & Infiltrate on the pile, which most cops would have reached for automatically.