by John Meaney
*Certainly.*
The elevator wraith carried him down.
Once in the firing-range lobby, Harald could see Brian and Eagle Dawkins talking to a group of uniformed officers, far along the corridor that ran past the practice lanes. The uniforms were carrying targets and shotguns. For the moment, the place was quiet.
“All right.” Harald edged onto the counter, swiveled his legs over, and dropped to the other side. “So let's see what we have back here.”
He went through a door into a passageway that opened to storerooms on either side. It took only seconds to find the one that featured a zombie sprawled across a dirty mattress, his heart exposed, a disconnected power cord lying nearby.
“Hades.”
It looked as though Donal had stirred during recharge-sleep, and pulled the cord from its socket.
Not every member of the Fighting Sevens, Harald's old unit, had been a living human. Well practiced in emergency procedures, Harald picked up the cord, checked the battery it was connected to—not empty, but carrying a low charge—then looked up at the dim light-bulb. That would work better.
There was a box of what might be books. Harald dragged it under the light, and used it to stand on. He unscrewed the bulb, then took a careful grip on the cable and the black-resin bulb-holder, and used a sharp rip-and-twist to pull them apart.
In seconds, he had the raw ends of the live cable twisted into the cord connector. Then he plugged the other end into Donal's chest.
As he stood up, a heavy shape barreled into the room, knocking into Harald, ripping the cord from his hand.
“No! You don't—”
Harald hammered down, struck Brian's temple with the bottom of his fist, then caught the semiconscious man before he smashed his face into the floor.
Donal gasped, his eyes still closed.
“What's going on?” said Harald. “Brian, tell me.”
“The power …” Brian pointed. “Use the battery.”
There was a fully charged replacement in the doorway. He must have been carrying it when he saw Harald bent over Donal.
“All right.”
Harald pulled the cord away from the dangling ceiling wires, and snapped the connector into place on the new battery. Donal's face grew calm again.
“It's the power.” Brian was sitting up on the floor. “After brownouts, there's a change, for about an hour.”
“A change.”
“Gimme a hand here, will you?”
After a moment, Harald helped Brian to his feet.
“Watch,” added Brian, raising one hand toward the bare ends of dangling wire. “See?”
As his pale-blue skin came almost in contact, dark-blue mottling appeared. Wincing, Brian pulled his hand back down.
“What the Hades is that?” said Harald.
“I don't know, but it hurts.” Brian pointed to Donal's black, beating heart. “It makes folk like him sick, and right now he can't cope with that.”
“What happened to him?”
“That, you're going to have to find out from someone else.” Brian wobbled. “Ah, you've got a hard fist, Sergeant. If that's what you hit me with.”
“Sit down. I'll get you some water.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
By the time Harald had Brian comfortable on a chair, sipping water—and had handed over targets to three cops looking to practice—Viktor was in the storage room as well, having received a similar message from Eduardo.
“So tell us,” Viktor said to Brian, “exactly what happened to Donal.”
“Like I told Harald, you'll need to … ask her.”
A glowing form was rising up through the floor.
*Is Donal all right?*
“Healing up, or seems to be,” said Harald. “But who are you?”
Viktor frowned.
“That's Gertie from … no.”
The big glowing wraith shifted form.
“Xalia?” added Viktor. “But you don't… no.”
Harald rubbed his face. This reminded him of something he'd heard, one of many stories told late at night in some sergeants’ mess. The trouble was, so many of those tales turned out to be true.
*Call me Aggie.*
“Oh,” said Harald. “Hi. We haven't met. For a moment we thought—”
*Short for Aggregate. Sort of a joke. And it's my fault that Donal is hurt. I kind of dropped him.*
“Shit.”
*But I caught him too. He'll be all right.*
Brian and Viktor stared from Donal to Harald to the wraith.
“Aggregate? Just who are you?”
*I was the beings you thought I was.*
“Gertie?” asked Viktor. “Or Xalia?”
“Not or,” said Harald. “Gertie and Xalia, am I right?”
*As close as a human being can get.*
“So Xalia was really injured. We thought she was getting better.”
*We had an … incident. After you left her here. There was only one way to save her.*
Harald stared down at Donal's open chest cavity. The heart continued to beat, recharging normally now.
*Events don't follow our plans, do they?*
“Is this …” Viktor tried to clear his throat. “Are you permanently … together?”
*I don't know.*
Viktor stared at Harald.
*Besides, to reconstitute Gertie and Xalia, Iwould have to cease existing.*
“Fuck,” said Viktor.
*I haven't tried that, in this identity.*
Harald held up his hand.
“Alexa is missing. She's ensorcelled, and she took the Phantasm. We think she might have been programmed to escape to childhood haunts, which in her case would be Shadebourne Yards.”
*That's not good.*
Aggie flared brightly. Whatever Xalia's condition had been, this aggregated wraith was powerful.
“Can you help us?”
*What about Surveillance? Have you asked for their assistance?*
“We're going to check back with them,” said Harald, “but earlier they'd found nothing.”
“And if they do … Alexa killed two people.” Viktor shrugged his massive shoulders, like a boxer loosening up before the first round. “Everyone's looking for her, and they're more likely to shoot than arrest her.”
*And if you find her? How can you avoid shooting?*
“If there's a way, we'll find it. At least we're motivated.”
*Yes.*
“So can you think of anything?”
*Yes.*
Harald's mouth twitched. That was a touch of Gertie's old sense of humor.
“Tell us,” he said.
*Scanbats.*
“That's not Surveillance. That's the City Mages. They don't owe us any personal favors.”
*Are they the only ones who can merge with bats?*
“Er…”
Aggie's form brightened, and she extended a partially materialized limb toward Viktor.
*He's got the touch of Mordanto upon him. Think of it as a scent. Maybe their people can help.*
“Mordanto?” said Harald.
“Hades, she had a word with me. Was waiting outside my house, along with Andre. He's her driver now.”
“I heard.” Harald nodded toward Donal. “Did you tell him?”
“No.”
“Will she help?”
“Your guess is exactly as good as mine.”
“That accurate, huh? Look, Aggie, what should we—?”
But the wraith was already drifting toward the ceiling.
“Shit.”
And then she was gone.
Even the OCML gave people days off work. Even Bone Listeners needed hobbies. Some studied esoteric fields of scholarship, contributing to journals that few people read. Some created intricate devices formed of bone, and delved into advanced perceptual and cognitive models, as if simply being a Bone Listener had not already immersed them in a rigorously arcane worldview.
Lexar Pinderwin lived on the se
venteenth floor of a seventeen-sided tower. Like the other modest towers in the small enclave, it was colored an appropriate bone-gray. Most of the residents were Bone Listeners, although none besides Lexar were forensic specialists or worked at the Office of the Chief Medical Listener. He liked his apartment, but today he just had to get out, not stare at the walls.
He stopped at the edge of the central yard that lay between the towers. Flagstones ringed a purple lawn across which a cobalt-blue giant beetle was clacking its way. Benches were set all around, but today only one was occupied.
“Master Pinderwin,” the old fellow said as Lexar approached. “Come sit with me, if you have time.”
“I'd be delighted, sir.”
Lexar did not know Rakshun Aldrevun well, but Aldrevun's bulbous eyes still gleamed with the strength of a formidable Bone Listener. He was a professor of Lattice science, and several of the city's foremost Archivists had been his students.
“I can stay for a short while,” added Lexar. “I'm not working today, but you know how it is.”
“Oh, I wonder if I do. There are so many paths available to us.”
“Yes, sir,” said Lexar, as if he understood what Aldrevun meant.
The bench was hard. How could Aldrevun spend so much time sitting on it?
“As one ages, though,” said Aldrevun, “one has certain harsh realities to face. Still, if it's bad for us, imagine how it is for ordinary humans, who are not forced until old age to confront the simplest facts that we learn as infants.”
“I'm not sure I follow.”
“Humor an old man talking about his own death.”
“You have many years yet, sir.”
“Truth?”
“Well … years.” Lexar closed his eyes. “The marrows remain strong.”
“Indeed. But my nephew died exactly one week ago. I've spent those nine days grieving.”
“Good passing. What happened?”
“He lived in Kalis. You heard about the riots in the Old Seventh?”
“Um, vaguely.”
The elegant old city of Kalis contained seven large wards, filled with pyramids and airy towers amid wide boulevards lined with cafés and restaurants. That was the popular image. But away from the city, in neighboring Tourraine, there was a territory that Rialst and the Dankish Republic both claimed as theirs. And the wards of Kalis tended to be inhabited along ethnic lines, so that green-skinned Rialstan families often clashed with their gray Dankish neighbors, within a city that was supposed to be cosmopolitan.
“A rabble broke into our enclave, smashed homes, painted anti-Bone Listener slogans everywhere … and took two dozen of our people out into the street, in order to beat them to death.”
“I didn't—”
“No, you didn't. Because that's not the kind of news the Gazette or the Messenger like to carry, not when they have advertisers. The Gazette mentioned ‘civil unease.’”
Lexar rubbed his face. “I'm not sure that's fair.”
“The violent, disgusting deaths of twenty-seven Bone Listeners were ignored by our local media. What does that tell you about the attitudes of mundanes toward those who are different?”
“The term mundanes—”
“Is far less insulting than what they've started calling us, or haven't you noticed? Tell me, how many cases of nonmundane deaths are you investigating nowadays?”
“A few more zombicides than normal perhaps.”
Aldrevun's lined face grew harder.
“Ask yourself whether the number of bodies reaching your autopsy tables reflects what's happening in the world.”
Lexar got up from the bench.
“Excuse me, but I must get home.”
“Of course. Forgive me for such unpleasant conversation.”
“That's all right, sir.”
“You should take downtime to look after yourself, while you can.” The old Bone Listener nodded. “Disengage from the bones that haunt.”
Lexar gave a short bow, as if he understood what Aldrevun had been telling him, then turned toward the tower that contained his home, and began to walk.
And he continued to walk, right past the entrance, heading for an archway that led out of the Bone Listener enclave.
“Silly old bastard,” Lexar muttered.
But there had been a pogrom in Kalis, and that silly old bastard had known all about it while Lexar Pinderwin, promising young forensic Bone Listener, supposedly perceptive, had been going about his life in ignorance.
Could there be other zombie deaths, other nonmundane deaths, where the remains were somehow failing to reach the OCML? Could Tristopolis have changed so much, and so quickly?
He'd never followed politics. But perhaps there were times when even the least political of beings must take a stand. If Dr. d'Alkernay were still alive, he could ask her advice, ask what she knew. But she was dead, and Lexar had no idea who to even begin talking to.
“Lieutenant Riordan,” he muttered. “Or Feoragh Carryn.”
Bone Listener Carryn was an Archivist, not a forensic specialist, and perhaps that was exactly the kind of person Lexar needed. Someone versed in the ways of the Lattice.
“Yes. Good.”
Lexar walked on. He could jeopardize his career by talking to the wrong people. Forensic Bone Listeners were supposed to work in a world of their own.
Eventually, as he walked, he began to stare less at the sidewalk, and more at the people who were glancing at him from street corners. He was in a neighborhood far from his own, where the inhabitants were standard human—mundane—and poor.
What he ought to do was flag down the first taxi he saw and get out of here. But there was a phone booth about a hundred yards ahead, so he overrode his rising unease.
The booth was new, surprising in this neighborhood, and quite intact. Lexar picked up the indigo receiver—interesting color—and spun the cogs to the number for the Archivists’ switchboard.
“Thanatos!”
He threw the receiver away from him. It bounced from the booth wall, and swung on its cord. Even then, he could hear the neural howl. Trembling, he placed the receiver back on the hook, and the horrifying song cut off.
A song not of bones, but of nerves.
“Oh, sweet Hades.”
He stared out at the street. Ordinary people lived here. People who could not detect what howled down the line. How many people had used this phone? And how many more devices like this were in the city?
“Aldrevun was right.”
He had to tell people what was happening.
“No. What I need is proof.”
And he was better placed than anyone to find it.
Donal remained in coma, on the mattress in Brian's storeroom. Harald and Viktor continued to watch over him. Brian stayed with them when he could, leaving only when officers arrived at the counter looking for targets and ammunition.
When he came back from serving three detectives from Robbery-Haunting, Harald asked a question he'd been thinking about.
“Brian? How is it you have a mattress in here? And food supplies, and a moth-oil stove?”
“Um …”
“You're not living here, are you?”
“I … Shit.” Brian rubbed his pale-blue face. “I had a bit of trouble with the landlord.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind where he says he's evicting everyone, because he's selling the building, you know? Except that only me and the family above got notices. They also got ‘Fuck Off Greenies’ written on their door, and I don't want to tell you what the bastards wrote it in.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah. I don't know what happened to the family. You want to feel sorry for anyone, feel it for them.”
“Right.” Harald stared down at Donal, then back at Brian. “We've got a lot to deal with, but we will make sure you're all right.”
“I'm doing okay.”
“So's Donal,” said Viktor. “He looks to be recharging just fine. Which g
ives me a really bad feeling.”
“Why's that?” asked Brian. “I thought he was your friend.”
“He is. And that's why Sergeant Hammersen is about to ask me to do something I don't want to do. Am I right?”
“Not at all,” said Harald. “As if I'd ever suggest that you … really … want… to come to Mordanto with me.”
“Fuck off.” Viktor rubbed his eyes. “Shit. All right.”
Brian pointed at Donal.
“I'll look after the lieutenant.”
“And I,” said Harald, “will take this gentleman who's eager to take a drive, and we'll see what we can see.”
“Yeah. Great.”
Viktor touched Brian on the shoulder before leaving, and Harald did likewise. It was a gesture of friendship, or at least equality. Then the two men hurried out.
It was perhaps ten minutes later that the Robbery-Haunting guys returned to the counter, and called for Brian. He went out to see what they needed.
“You got any of those silver-crossed Cleaver rounds?”
“Hades,” said Brian. “You know how much that stuff costs?”
“So we'll only take two boxes for practice. Or you want our boss should get authorization from the commissioner?”
“Ain't you heard? The commissioner is dead.”
“The old one, sure. Rumor is, Craigsen's going to be the new man at the top.”
“Ugh,” said Brian.
“And what's that supposed to mean, Bluey?”
“I don't—nothing. I'll get your ammo.”
“Good man. Or whatever.”
Brian fetched the rounds they wanted, and handed the boxes over without a word. After they headed back to the firing lanes, he returned to the storage room to see how Lieutenant Riordan was doing.
The mattress was empty. The power cord lay neatly coiled beside the necrotonic battery pack.
“I guess you got all the moves, Lieutenant.” Brian glanced at the wall, in the direction of the practice shots that were starting up. “I hope it's enough.”
He pushed at the mattress with the toe of his shoe.
“Guys like you and me,” he added, “we don't got it so good these days.”
Then he reached around to the small of his back, and drew a small shining automatic. It was a Silver Dragon—and surprisingly accurate, given the shortness of its barrel. It contained only seven rounds, but if things went totally sour, that was more than enough.