Ecko Rising
Page 47
And so was the tavern.
“Roderick! Shit, Roderick!”
From far below them, there was a distant, ominous rumble. The ground shook. They could only watch as the stone bearing Maugrim’s corpse upended like the fucking Titanic and was gone, the soil round it falling away. It was sliding into nothing, spilling the body and tumbling free into capacitor-stone and the ruined cathedral, far, far below.
From where it fell, cracks grew through the ground, reached like hands for the walls of The Wanderer. Another stone hung over the limit, teetered, and was gone.
For a second, Ecko was poised to race down the bank, but Redlock’s hand on his arm held him. Aghast, they could only watch.
Triq said, hushed, “Did we just do that?”
The tavern garden was hazy, slued. It twisted sideways in the soft grey light, as if to follow some invisible magnetism in the fallen stones. It shook, the stone embedded in the front wall sank without trace, a black maw remaining to suck at the tavern’s life.
He could see – just – Roderick throwing open the door, the Bard was shouting but his voice was snatched away by the brain-fucking, plughole twist of The Wanderer’s movement. Kale was in the garden itself, and Sera and Karine stared out of the windows.
“What in the name of the Gods?” Amethea had her hands over her mouth.
With a scrabble, they were all on their feet, grabbing each other and staring.
“The whole world’s gone loco,” Redlock said.
With a rumble, the entire Monument gave way, grass and soil and stones plummeting gracefully into a huge, yawning darkness.
And The Wanderer was gone, white faces and screaming and horror, downwards into the dark.
“Fuck,” Ecko said.
EPILOGUE LUGAN’S OFFICE, LONDON
Her name was Tarquinne Magdalene Gabriel. Her friends called her “Maggie”, her employees called her Ma’am. Pilgrim had called her a miracle.
Like her brother, she was extremely bright, afraid of very little and strongly individualistic – unlike her brother, she was worth in excess of three hundred million eurobucks.
She was twenty-eight years of age and one of the greatest financial minds of her generation.
So they said, anyhow.
Lugan could see Ecko in the woman that paced, agitated, across the stained ferrocrete floor of his office – hints of his restlessness, his face shape, his mannerisms and speech. Ms Gabriel was not beautiful – she was a little too thin, a little too chill. But her skin was like porcelain, her hair flawless and her overlarge brown eyes hinted at a familiar fanaticism. She had poise, she was difficult to ignore.
And she was already annoying the shit out of him.
Ms Hotshot Gabriel eyed the grubby glass of the dividing wall, and the workshop beyond, with disdain.
“Beer?” Lugan asked her, not bothering to mask his sarcasm. “Cuppa tea?”
The tan coat she wore was real leather, kevlar reinforced. He had bikes worth less.
“I want my brother, Mr Eastermann.” She paused in front of the crouching, glowering desk, arms folded.
“An’ I’ve told ya, I dunno where ’e is.” Lugan leaned right back in his chair. He took a drag on his dog-end, squinting at her through the smoke. “Don’t let the door ’it you in the arse on the way out.”
Tarquinne leaned one soft and delicate hand on the desktop and smiled. “Tam vanished, Mr Eastermann. He was working for you. You either know where he is – or you need to find him. Kindly don’t try and intimidate me.”
He pushed the chair onto its back legs. It creaked.
“He’s the Ecko, vanishin’ is what ’e does best.” Smoke curled free with the words. “This isn’t your fuckin’ boardroom, luv, and I get cranky takin’ orders. Whether you’re ’is sister or you ain’t – you can get the fuck out my face.”
Close by, bike engines coughed into life, slammed down the gears as they roared away. The blue light of a hoverdrone shone briefly through the window then was gone.
Tarquinne pulled a colour-washed titanium needle from an inside pocket.
“One hundred thousand eurodollars, Mr Eastermann. Half now, half when I have my brother.”
Lugan snorted. “Fuckin’ suit. You’re lucky I don’t break both your –”
“I need you to do a job for me.” Tarquinne said. “And I ask you to bear something in mind. If you don’t find my brother, Mr Eastermann, and someone else does, I’ll hold you responsible for anything that... may fall into the wrong hands.”
It was not even a threat – the cocky little bitch was completely serious. He drew a last, hard, drag on the dog-end, then pinched it out between thumb and forefinger.
With a deft snap, she clicked the needle onto the desk.
“Like all men, you have a price – name it and it’s –” she glanced around her, pointedly “– yours.”
“Six eurobucks and a pint.” He dropped the dog-end in the pocket of his cut-down, blew smoke in her face.
She smiled, blinked. “Everyone has a price, Mr Eastermann. I want my brother. You could move to new premises, perhaps – I fear I’ve let you have the bargaining advantage over me.” Her smile grew winsome, revealing a diamond in one of her teeth. “Whatever you’d like.”
“How about the ‘mug’ tattoo removed from my forehead?” Slamming the chair back onto all fours, he resisted the urge to stand up – he was itching to slap the smirk off this smug little bint’s face. “This is bullshit – and you’re runnin’ outta welcome.”
“This is idiocy – and I’m running out of patience.” Her smile was unchanged. “I want my brother.”
“And I want ’Arley Davidson to make bicycles. Life’s tough.”
Outside the rain-spattered window, the hoverdrone had returned.
“He ran on Grey’s base –”
“You’re stalkin’ my cell, now?” Lugan enjoyed a sudden flash-vision of grabbing this little rodent by the throat and shaking her ’til her perfect teeth rattled. “You really don’t want to be doin’ that.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m only stalking my own.” She laughed at his anger, a cold, tinkling sound. “I keep a close eye on Tam. After all, if you’d invested five million in cybernetics for a top-end product, would you want to lose it?”
Product.
Realisation hit him like a scaff bar round the back of the head.
“He’s your personal hitman.” He learned back, whistled through his teeth. “Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking motor scooter – you paid that demented Tech...”
Tarquinne laughed again. “What? You think his ‘Mom’ changed him for free? Out of altruism? To break the frontiers of cybernetic science?” She flicked the needle with a perfectly polished nail and it rolled across the desk. “Two hundred thousand.”
Lugan snorted.
“Five.”
“Shove it, sister.”
“With his hatred of Pilgrim’s control, there’s no limit to what Tam is capable of. I need him back.”
His hatred of Pilgrim’s control...
“Holy fucking shit on a stick. You planted him in my fucking team.” A second smack of scaff pipe – Fawkes’ night, last year. He’d walked into it like a drunk into a fucking brick wall. “To take out your boss, to take out Grey. Because you wanna play suit-war.” Now, the twat he needed to shake was himself.
She raised her eyebrows at him, amused.
“It’s quite simple, really, when you look at it.” With a coquettish, artificial smirk, she perched her well-shaped rear on the edge of the desk. “We could be allies.”
Really annoyed now, Lugan emptied dog-ends out of his pocket and began to shred them, methodical and savage, reclaiming the baccy.
“No offence, luv, I’d sooner shag my dog.” A fresh paper, a new smoke. He lit it, pulled the tar-filled gunk deep into his lungs, considering. “If you take over Pilgrim, what’re you gonna do?”
“Get me Tam, and we’ll talk.”
“If you want him, you’ll talk
now.”
She gave a short, controlled sigh.
“Very well. Simple time-motion analysis states Grey’s ultra-passive workforce is inefficient.” A second needle joined the first. “Quiescence doesn’t make for good employees – or good profits. New ideas are unforthcoming, everybody suffers. It’s all here.”
“What fuckin’ genius told you that?” He let the smoke out in a cough of dark humour.
Tarquinne chuckled. “I’ll put you in touch with the Tech – she’ll help you locate him.” She held out both needles. “I asked you to name your price.”
This time, Lugan took them. “You said five ’undred thousand. ’Alf a million eurobucks – in advance.”
“One hundred thousand now, the rest if you’re successful. And you sign a contract stating you’ll not take arms against Pilgrim again.”
“Two ’undred now, the rest whether we’re successful or not. No contract.”
Tarquinne nodded, almost approving. “Two hundred and fifty thousand in advance. A quarter of a million eurodollars, Lugan – and the same at the conclusion. You sign the contract.”
“I’m not signing shit.”
“You’re throwing away a great deal of money.”
“An’ you’re here for a reason. Why don’t you ask the Tech yourself? Why come ’ere and pay me to do something you can do yourself? You wanna keep your ’ands clean. Dontcha?” He grinned through his beard. “You need us to do this for you.”
“Very well then.” Tarquinne extended a ladylike hand and smiled, revealing the diamond. “I see your reputation is richly –”
The glass wall shattered.
A massive, screaming implosion of flying, crystal pebbles, a detonation of a million pulverised shards.
His brain screaming betrayal, Lugan was behind the desk, hand tearing the gaffer from the sawn-off that lived beneath.
He could hear Tarquinne shrilling orders – wherever her back up lurked, it was close.
Jam her signal, for fuck’s sake. He was snapping orders of his own, orders at Fuller in the security office. Jam her – !
Done. Collator says... fuck!
Lugan had never heard Fuller swear. Get me a grid on the bastards! As the glass scattered across the desktop, the floor, he snapped home the shotgun’s nerve contact, felt the weapon in his hand – in his head.
Fucking bitch. He’d string her up by her...
He heard her swear, a gasp of utter disbelief.
“Holy shit.” Suddenly, her poise had gone, her Chicago accent was fully deployed – her shock was genuine. “What the hell...?”
Where they at, for fuck’s sake? How many? Where the fuck are Strafe and Heels?
Luge... we’re not under attack. Fuller sounded bloodless, shocked to the soles of his journo loafers. Take a look. Collator’s having a bloody meltdown!
Sawn-off in hand, Lugan eased a look over the desktop.
Tarquinne was staring, stock-still, through the shattered remnants of the glass wall.
At a brick-walled, tile-roofed impossibility, at some sort of holographic piss-take – at the arse-back-end of some fucking building that had beamed the fuck in where his workshop should be.
“What the fuck,” Lugan asked, “is that?”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For my Norwich Vike Wrecking Crew, my Sigismund Sisters and my Brothers-in-Arms. For Andrew, who first coined the phrase “Virtual Rorschach”, and for Liam, for forging a fractal from my name.
For Cath at Titan, whose patience is both boundless and remarkable, and for my agent Sally Harding, crusader extraordinaire.
And, always, for my son Isaac, with no words adequate.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANIE WARE is the publicist and event organiser for cult entertainment retailer Forbidden Planet. She has worked closely with a wide-range of genre authors and has been immersed in the science-fiction and fantasy community for the past decade. An early adopter of blogging, social media and a familiar face at conventions, she appears on panels as an expert on genre marketing and retailing.
WWW.DANIEWARE.COM
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART 1: IMPACT
TO BE A PILGRIM
RECONNAISSANCE
THE WANDERER
PART 2: RIPPLES
THE MONUMENT
LIVING THE NIGHTMARE
FLESH
MYTH
TRIQUETA
STONE
FEREN
MONSTER
COURAGE
PART 3: WAVES
RHAN
MERCHANT
THE COUNCIL
ASH
REDLOCK
FOUNDERSDAUGHTER
SENTINEL
TREASURE
CRAZED
PART 4: TORNADO
VISION
AMETHEA
FIGMENT
TWICE FALLEN
CATHEDRAL
SICAL
GUILT
LOREMASTER
MEGALOMANIAC
EPILOGUE