Choose Your Enemies Carefully

by Robert N. Charrette

  What should never have been, was no more.

  The world spun and her vision greyed as she slumped against the wall. The sludge spirit was banished, its animating presence terminated. Sam ran to her, carefully avoiding the puddles of caustic slime that were all that remained of the thing.

  Practical. Even when running on emotion. If she had been so practical . . .

  She blacked out.

  25

  Sam didn't know what kind of magic Hart had worked to destroy the sludge monster. He hadn’t thought her capable of such a feat. Maybe she wasn’t— she had collapsed almost as soon as she had finished the spell. He hoped she was all right. He knew that it was possible for a magician to cast a spell more powerful than she normally handled, and that the price for such sudden power was almost always death.

  He was relieved to find her still breathing when he arrived at her side. He crouched and felt for the pulse in her neck. It was strong; she would be all right. Thank you, he prayed. He kissed her, thankful for the grace that had allowed her to perform the rescue and more thankful that she had survived it. He felt her return his kiss and knew she had revived.

  "Ain't that a touching sight?"

  Sam froze at the voice. Hart’s narrowed eyes told him that the newcomer was armed Moving slowly and carefully so as to not alarm him, Sam straightened from his crouch and turned around.

  The man who had spoken wore a trenchcoat and a battered tweed hat. Sam didn’t need to see a badge to recognize him as a London Metroplex detective; the outfit was almost a trademark. If they had been any doubt one look at the square, pock-marked face would have dissolved it, for Sam recognized the man as one of the detectives they had been investigating.

  The policeman held a gleaming, big-bore pistol, pointing it unwaveringly at Sam. Though not a hardware fanatic, Sam knew enough to tell that this was no tranquilizer weapon. It was a mankiller. Sam had read that British police had once gone about their ordinary business without firearms, issuing weapons only in dire circumstances, but that practice had long since been abandoned. From his stance, it was clear that this man knew how to handle this weapon.

  "Let’s see your sticks. On the floor and roll them."

  Sam cautiously accepted Hart’s credstick and rolled it and his own across the floor as ordered. The detective retrieved them without taking his eyes from his captives. With deft motions he slotted Sam’s stick into a reader he fished from his coat pocket. The reader gave off a two-tone beep after a minute. In another two minutes, it gave the same response to Hart’s stick.

  A second detective arrived.

  "What have you got there, Dellett?"

  "Two of the downsiders that were hanging around outside."

  "ID?"

  "Nothing real. SINs are d-code."

  Dellett didn’t sound surprised. Sam was only surprised at how quickly the cop’s system had flagged the System Identification Numbers on their credsticks as belonging to deceased persons. The knowbots the detective had accessed were very good.

  "Hey, Inspector," Dellett said. His face was lit as if he had gotten a bright idea. "Maybe we just caught ourselves the Bone Boy killers."

  The inspector stepped out of the darkness. "Go help Rogers."

  Dellett slid his pistol into a concealed holster and walked jauntily over to his fellow cop. Rogers was busy divesting Carstairs’s clothing of anything secreted in it. Dellett began to strip the body. Saying nothing, the inspector watched Sam watch the process. When the two detectives had Carstairs’s effects bundled together, they lifted the naked body and walked it awkwardly down the stairs to the river. Sam listened to the count that preceded a heave that forced a grunt from each of them. Dellett cursed when the splash threw some sludge onto his trenchcoat.

  Given the disposal of Carstairs’s body in such a way that his death would look like a simple downsprawl killing, Sam knew that the policemen would not be leaving until they had eliminated all evidence of the highly-placed people who had gathered here. He expected them to perform a similar duty for Hyde-White’s body, but the detectives stood talking quietly at the top of the landing. Sam was confused. Why one druid and not the other? He sought out the spot where he had seen the fat old man go down, looking for the corpse. He didn’t see it. The only body approaching the druid’s bulk was that of a large furry thing. The metahuman’s head had been raggedly severed from its body and was nowhere to be seen. Sam had met a similar creature once before, and it had concealed its true form behind an illusion. In that encounter, Sam had learned that his astral senses could pierce the illusion, but Sam had never had a chance to assense Hyde-White. The fat old druid’s appearance must have been a lie. His reversion to true form at his death was saving the corrupt cops a bit of work. There was no need to conceal the manner and location of death, since no one would know the furred metahuman had been the fat industrialist.

  But cops were supposed to stop crimes, not help commit them. The whole thing had smelled when he first learned of the apparent cover-up. It stank worse now that he had encountered it personally.

  "I’d heard you were incorruptable, Burnside. Guess I heard wrong."

  The inspector gave him a sharp look, and Sam knew he had made a mistake by using the inspector’s name.

  "Shut up, cypher," Burnside commanded.

  "Don’t you understand what’s going on here? Do you have no idea what you’re helping hide? Have you any idea how widespread the influence of this evil is?"

  "I said shut up. I don’t need a sermon from a cypher. Just because I’m part of the system doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I understand what’s going on here better than you do." Burnside let his gaze slip away from Sam and survey the carnage. "You’re not just a cypher; you’re a Yank cypher. That means that you couldn’t have the faintest idea of what’s important here and why."

  Sam didn’t think the English had a monopoly on knowing what was important. "I understand evil when I meet it. I know it has to be stopped."

  "Maybe you should understand this, cypher. What happened here tonight is unhealthy. For you. For your friends. You’re going to come along with us and be our guests until I’m satisfied that you’re not trouble. For your sakes, I hope you don’t know too much."

  "I think you’re trying to cover this up. I think you’re as dirty as they come."

  "Think what you want."

  Sam could see that the inspector was nettled about something. Burnside was no happier about what he and his detectives were doing than Sam was. Sam suddenly thought he knew why the inspector was involved. "It’s Gordon’s involvement, isn’t it?"

  "I told you to shut up, cypher."

  That touched a nerve. "You can’t muzzle us."

  "Can’t I?" Burnside asked. "Remember, you’re cyphers. Nobody’ll miss you, or even know you’re gone. You should know enough to choose your enemies carefully. If you say the wrong thing to the wrong person, don’t expect to see tomorrow. Keep your mouth shut, and maybe you walk away from this." Sam decided that keeping his mouth shut was a good idea; aggravating the inspector would only make things harder. His silence seemed to mollify Burnside. The detective called Dellett over to watch the runners and went to have a conference with Rogers. Dellett leaned against the west doorway and ignored Sam and Hart. He knew they weren’t going anywhere as long as he was in their way.

  As soon as he felt sure that Dellett wasn’t paying attention, Sam whispered to Hart, "We’ve got to get out of here."

  "Do tell. I’m too bushed to do much."

  "Can you run?"

  "If I have to. But no magic."

  "Leave it to me. I’ve been wanting to show you something Herzog taught me when you weren’t around."

  "You sure you can do it?"

  "No."

  "No second chances, Sam, but you can’t fly with your feet on the ground."

  Sam concentrated, trying to remember the words Herzog had used for the spell. The memory was slippery, and he struggled to get it straight.

  "Forget the word
s, remember the song."

  Sam stiffened. Drek, not now. Why does stress always trigger this schizoid stuff? Go away, Dog.

  "It ain’t the stress, it’s the pattern. Sing the song, or sing for the coppers."

  I know.

  "Then do it."

  Get out of my head.

  "Do it," Dog’s voice said in a faded musical echo.

  Sam caught the tune and sang silently to himself.

  The power gathered, shaping itself to the melody. When he had the rhythm just right, Sam released it. Angry voices drifted into the chamber from somewhere beyond the north entrance. They grew louder, as if they were approaching.

  Burnside cursed and rushed for the archway. The other two policemen drew their weapons and followed. For the moment, their captives were forgotten. The spell had worked. While the detectives paid attention to the illusory voices, Sam and Hart slipped through the west entrance and away.

  As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Hart started a staggering run toward the riverside.

  "Where are you going?" Sam asked.

  "Had a boat arranged in case we got hosed. The landing is only a couple of blocks."

  "What about Willie?"

  "We’ll come back for her."

  "She might need help now. The slime shorted her drone, and the feedback could have hurt her. Drek, it might have killed her."

  Hart looked over her shoulder as if she expected Burnside and his goons to come pelting out of the warehouse at any moment. "If she’s dead, we can’t help her. If she’s alive, we can’t help her by getting locked up. Let’s get out of here."

  "If she’s alive and we don’t help her, she might not stay that way long. The Bone Boy may not be a ghoul, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any in the East End. If Willie’s out cold and exposed, she’s easy meat."

  "Sam, we . . ."

  "I’m going after her. I can’t abandon her."

  Hart shook her head. "Okay. Let’s go."

  They ran up the street away from the river.

  Since she disliked operating at extended range in the plex, Sam knew that she would have parked her van somewhere close by. He and Hart started checking likely places. They found the battered panel truck in the third place they tried. It looked barely functional, more like a derelict than a working vehicle. Appearances were deceiving; its motor and running gear were superbly maintained and its cargo area contained a multi-slot rigger board, multifrequency transceivers, trideo monitoring systems, and drone storage cells. In short, it was the rigger's camouflaged, rolling command center. Sam fidgeted while Hart disarmed the truck's protection, relaxing only when they opened the back to find Willie semi-conscious The rigger let go her hold on awareness as soon as she realized her friends had found her. Hart gave the van a set of coordinates and told him that they were headed for a place she had used before.

  They had been at Hart's safehouse for an hour before Willie responded to the drugs from her van’s medical kit. When she opened her eyes her pupils were dilated, but Sam wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs or the rigger-loop feedback. Willie’s words were slurred. "What happened? Where’s everybody?"

  "Hart and I are here, Willie. You’re going to be okay."

  "Others get out?"

  "Haven’t heard from Estios and his crew since they took off after the druids. Nice of them to leave us with that slime thing."

  Willie started to shake. Sam reached out to steady her.

  "It’s okay. Hart got it. It’s gone, Willie."

  "Sure?"

  "Sure."

  "I hate magic."

  Me too, Sam wanted to say. He thought it more useful to stay positive. "Raid's over now. We must have done something right, we survived."

  "What was that furry thing?" Willie asked.

  "Looked like a sasquatch to me," Sam said.

  "More likely was a wendigo," Hart opined.

  "Though the two look a lot alike. Can’t always tell even from the aura."

  "Why do you think it was a—what did you call it?"

  "Wendigo," Hart replied. "The flesh angle. A wendigo is a pananormal thing that eats human flesh. The Circle was probably stripping the corpses to keep it fed. Nasty business."

  "Well, it’s gonna be hungry for a long time now that its mouth don’t connect to its stomach. I stitched the head clean off the furball."

  Willie’s smile stayed plastered on her face as her eyes sank closed and she began to snore.

  26

  It had been three microseconds since the activity monitor had registered data manipulation. A long time. Dodger considered the merits of opening the bubble that sealed his persona within the masked credit file he had uncovered in Glover’s ATT discretionary funds. The number of manipulations the shunt bubble had passed through had been high, much higher than a legitimate or even an ordinary illegal transfer of funds. The bubble had traveled far, perhaps as far as the druids’ innermost computer system. He knew he should wait longer. The operator who had called for the data he had piggybacked on might not be out of the system. Tired of waiting, he was ready for action. While it was a risk breaking out now, remaining encapsuled could be a greater one. He cancelled the program, restoring his ordinary Matrix persona and functionality.

  The ebon boy stretched as if awakening from sleep, then froze. There was no swirl of glitter around him. His dazzling cloak was gone, replaced with another kind of shine. His arms were encased in gleaming metal that was articulated in the style of antique armor. More than just his arms, his entire body was armored. The construct imagery was superb, but not his style at all. Dodger hit the reformat key, but the construct remained. He tapped out a routine to alter the imagery, and still got no result. A diagnostic on the cyberdeck registered nominal, which meant that the persona construct imagery was being imposed by the host system. Such an effect required a powerful system.

  A look around told him just how powerful. Most systems, even imposed imagery systems, had a hint of the electron reality about them. Even the best virtual recompositers didn’t always provide a truly realistic image, and they only supplied the specific translations to their slaved deck; other users still perceived the basic interface illusion. But this place was beyond the ordinary. Had he not known that magic was impossible in the Matrix, he would have thought the landscape touched with enchantment.

  All around him lay a green and pleasant land. He stood at the edge of a forest looking out on rolling hills lush with croplands and scattered copses of woods. The forest behind him, a beautiful climax system, stretched away to the horizon in either direction. It was lush and burgeoning with woodland life. The sight, sound, and smell of it filled him with wonder. If it were real . . .

  Dodger turned away and stared once more across the open vista. He could not afford to lose himself in amazement. For the moment, the forest was only a distraction. Perhaps when he had done what needed doing and seen what needed seeing, he would come back to explore this marvelous construct. For now, he had to be about his work.

  A careful visual search revealed no signs of habitation beyond the fields. Given the imagery, he thought it likely that any datastores or other useful computer nodes would appear as man-made structures. Given the girdling forest and the lack of buildings, he felt sure that he was on the fringes of ths system. He would need to get deeper to find out anything.

  Obstructed somehow by the interface, his standard programs failed to move him through the architecture at a reasonable pace. He tapped keys, improvising variations in a search for a compatible set of parameters. Frustrating minutes later, he finally realized that many of his tricks were inappropriate. Passwords and subroutines here would be strongly influenced by the imagery. Symbolically, not literally, for nothing was literal in the Matrix. He suspected that many programs in this system would have strategic orientations that could only be expressed in such a way as to manifest an appropriate construct imagery. A clever, if convoluted protection system. Any decker unwilling to accept the parameters of the imposed
imagery would be paralyzed. But, as he had told uncounted admirers, he was not just any decker.

  His fingers flew across the keyboard, searching out the avenues of correspondence with self-contained routines. Having grasped one of the master program’s constraining strategies, he was able to formulate more appropriate responses and begin to manipulate the system. Successes began to accumulate, culminating in a soft whicker. He turned to pat the destrier that stood by his side. The horse nuzzled his hand and bumped his shoulder with its snout. Like a proper steed, it was eager for adventure. He mounted the milk-white stallion and settled into the high-cantled saddle. Then they were off, the horse’s alabaster mane and tail streaming back in the wind.

  The destrier’s stride was steady and strong. The countryside rolled past. Despite deviations into likely valleys and detours to check out farmed land, Dodger found nothing more elaborate than thatch-roofed sod huts. Such were certainly nodes, but unlikely to hold anything of import. This system’s imagery pattern demanded that what was important look important. He rode on until at last he glimpsed golden spires on the distant horizon. Turning the horse’s head toward the structure, he spurred the beast forward.

  The destrier climbed the last rise between them and their destination as swiftly as it had climbed the first. The road they had followed for the last several apparent miles led down the gentle slope to a bridge that spanned the valley’s wide river. Beyond the water, the road climbed a well-grassed knoll and disappeared through the gates of the structure Dodger sought. The magnificent castle spread over the crown of the hill and its nacreous walls shown in the sunlight. Bright pennons fluttered on the conical peaks of dozens of subsidiary towers, but the spire of the great central tower flew a single flag. There a red banner with the three golden leopards of Britain flapped boldly in the breeze.