Clockwork Asylum

by Jak Koke

  Power emanated from the Locus. Even partially active, its force was palpable and crisp.

  Lucero longed to tap into the stone's strength. An untainted magic that brought her hope that she might wield the mana again. That she might be as she once was, a manipulator of life energy. A mage.

  If only I had another chance, she thought. I would not accept the taint. The addiction to blood magic. The desperate need that stains my soul.

  Now, in the metaplanes, anchored on the bloody cracked rock in the middle of a black circle of corpses, Lucero collapsed. She stumbled and fell, landing on the first ring of bodies, her cheek resting on the childish breasts of an older girl. Her mouth just centimeters from a drying dollop of blood that rested on the girl's collarbone.

  The music came again, roaring over the darkness. It punished her as it pleased her, its white heat purging all thoughts of evil from her mind. Oh, great spirits, she thought. If only it could go on forever.

  The light cast garish shadows among the dead, its flickering making the young bodies seem to sway and dance in time to the music. To Lucero the shadows meant the piecemeal destruction of the light and the music—something so perfect, so painfully beautiful that she felt unworthy to be in its presence.

  It's my fault, she cried silently. I've done this to you through my blood lust. Without me, you would be safe, whole.

  Tears ran down her face. She cursed the darkness in her, and for the first time in her life, she prayed to something other than Quetzalcoatl, the great feathered one. She prayed now to the light. She prayed for it to kill her before Oscuro could use her to create more destruction.

  Something happened in that moment. The pain of the song diminished, though the song itself grew louder. Her breathing eased. She gazed about in wonder. The dead were even more revolting than they had been a moment before, but the light. . . the light was glorious.

  Her mind and heart rang with the beauty of it. It was still painful, but the pain had lessened to the point where she could think of other things besides her own delicious torment. She looked inwardly, and saw what she already knew to be true. The dark spot of her addiction was still there, perhaps it always would be, but it was different now.

  The song was cleansing her soul. Turning her black heart to gray.

  5

  "Dhin," Ryan called to the far end of the alley. "Home the drone. Everything's chill."

  Ryan watched as the sunlight flashed off the drone's carapace. The thing looked like a huge beetle, buzzing in the dirty air. Dhin guided it smoothly into a compartment in the trunk.

  "Uh, Mercury?" The voice was deep southern molasses now. "You mind if I put my hands down? I'm not getting any younger, and I think all the blood is rushing to my heart. Be a tragedy if I keeled over before we had a chance to catch up."

  Ryan turned to the speaker. The broad grin had turned into a wry, crooked smile, and the deep brown eyes held a certain intensity Ryan found vaguely disturbing.

  "Frag you, Matthews. What's the Secret Service trying to do? Get you killed? If I'd played this differently, you'd be dead, and I'd be up to my short hairs in bureaucratic drek."

  Matthews lowered his meaty hands, and dropped the smile as well. "Got to hand it to you, Mercury. You learned everything I taught you, and then just a mite more. Almost made a mess of my suit when I saw that limo come to a stop."

  Suddenly Ryan felt tired. More tired than he could ever remember. The adrenaline rush was wearing off, and the shakes were setting in. His shoulder hurt, his gut hurt, and he felt an uneasy nausea creep into his stomach. "Yeah, whatever. I'm just glad this situation didn't get too ugly."

  Matthews' smile was grim. "Well, actually, old friend, it's a tad uglier than I think you—"

  He was interrupted by the sound of the Eurocar driver's door opening. An ork stepped out, and Ryan watched in mild wonder. For her metatype, she was huge. It seemed like more and more of her just kept coming until Ryan couldn't believe she could possibly have fit into the car in the first place.

  Well over two meters, she dwarfed the vehicle, and wore an outfit similar to Matthews. On her, however, it stretched and bulged, showing rippled muscles. She had a deep, ugly scar that stretched from the left corner of her mouth and traveled up to the ruin of her left ear. It looked like one of those wounds that should have killed.

  "Ah, Mercury, I'd like you to meet my new partner." Matthews gestured from Ryan to the huge ork. "Mercury, this is Agent Phelps. Phelps, this is the infamous Ryan Mercury. Best student I ever had, even if he doesn't seem to realize it's bad form for the student to show up his teacher."

  "New partner?" Ryan grinned. "So Edgefield finally got that elusive Secret Service desk job he kept talking about."

  Matthews turned back to Ryan with a slow deliberate motion of his head. The intense look had returned.

  Ryan's grin faltered.

  "We put Bob in the ground two weeks ago. Had a big memorial service just day before yesterday. Should have been there, Mercury. It was real nice, lots of tears, lots of flowers."

  The hair on the back of Ryan's neck started to rise, and some primal warning instinct flared. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

  Matthews arched one eyebrow. "You didn't know? I thought you were more in touch with the dirty underside of things in this fair city."

  "I've been out of town for a while."

  "You must have been far-side-of-the-solar-system out of town to have missed the trid coverage."

  "He died in the assassination explosion?"

  Matthews just nodded.

  Ryan felt his shoulders sag. "Listen, I'm very sorry about Bob."

  "Get the driver out of your vehicle." It was the first time Phelps had spoken, and her deep ork voice dropped into the alley like a sheet of napalm. It was the voice of someone used to command, someone used to having those commands obeyed, and the implied threat in her tone made Ryan smile.

  "We're going to wrap this up in a moment, Agent Phelps," Ryan said, "so just relax."

  Then, in a movement so swift it was almost a blur, Phelps drew her Czech-made 88V assault rifle. A stubby, ugly weapon under the best of circumstances, the 88V looked even worse from the receiving end.

  It took every drop of Ryan's control to stop himself from geeking her with a quick burst from his Ingram. She'd moved fast, surprisingly fast, but he'd caught the tiny back step, the bunching of her neck muscles. He could have dusted her, and almost had, on instinct.

  Phelps spoke again, "I'll repeat myself only once. Have your driver step out of the vehicle." This time there was no menace in the tone, and her voice was soft.

  Ryan turned to Matthews and gave him a pleading look.

  Matthews just shrugged.

  Ryan felt the rush of adrenaline hit him again. Instantly, his mind shifted into overdrive. The dumpster was still at his back. He knew he could move faster than the ork could follow. Could be behind cover before she could possibly track him and pull the trigger. Matthews' hands were empty, but Ryan knew that meant nothing. From personal experience Ryan rated Matthews, even open-handed, as a greater threat than the ork.

  Once again, he forced himself to relax. He didn't have a beef with the Secret Service, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  "Dhin! Step out into the heat. The nice Secret Service lady wants a look at you."

  Dhin did as he was told and climbed out of the limo. Ryan noticed that his jacket was unbuttoned, and both hands were a tad far out to his sides. He was ready to rock and roll, and Ryan knew he had to be careful not to give Dhin any false clues, or two nickel-plated Guardian pistols would be blazing.

  Ryan turned back to Matthews. "All right, we're playing it your way, now let's cut the drek. Why were you following me? If you wanted to talk—"

  Once again, Phelps interrupted. "If you would be so kind as to lose your weapons, Mister Mercury, we would greatly appreciate it."

  Ryan looked at Matthews, who turned to Phelps. "Don't push him too hard, Phelps. He could have killed you when you pulle
d that damn rifle. Probably would have geeked you without even realizing it if he was any more tired. Besides, from what I've seen of him in action, he might be even more dangerous with his hands free. Leave it."

  "Agent Matthews, I'm sure you think you're right, but I refer you to Suspect Interrogation Code six-eight—"

  Matthews turned to face her, voice tight, angry. "Stow it! You've pushed Mister Mercury's patience, and now you're pushing mine."

  Ryan felt the first real twinges of anger tighten the muscles in his shoulders. "Suspect Interrogation? Frag it, Matthews, is that what this is all about? You think I had something to do with Dunkelzahn's ... with the assassination?"

  Matthews turned back to Ryan. "Calm down, friend. I know how this must sound. I also know how loyal you were to the old wyrm, but you got to understand the Secret Service's predicament here. Somebody killed a dragon, chummer. A fragging great dragon."

  Ryan shook his head. "That dragon was the closest thing I had to a father since I was ten. I'd have killed myself before I did anything to harm him."

  "You're not getting my point, Mercury. No one can even figure just how the assassin killed President Dunkelzahn, let alone who might have been behind it."

  "You're not telling me anything I don't know, Matthews, and you're beginning to slot me off."

  Matthews held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Then let me break it down for you. With nothing to go on, we're left with one course of action—investigating anyone or any group with the ability to pull it off."

  Ryan nodded. It made a lot of sense. Killing a dragon took more than just motive. It took exceptional talent and resources, magical as well as mundane. It would take cunning and intricate planning. Ryan had been too busy searching for Burnout to do any investigating himself so he had no idea how it had been pulled off.

  The fact was, however, that very few people could have executed the assassination. After weeding out all those without the means, the Secret Service would be left with only a select few to investigate.

  Matthews' smile was grim. "There are those who say you should head the list."

  Ryan looked Matthews in the eye, saw the disturbing questions there, and returned the grim smile. "That's a pretty dubious honor; one I'd just as soon do without."

  Matthews stepped close, close enough that Ryan could smell the man's sweat and aftershave. "Listen, old friend, I know you didn't do it. But you're one of maybe three individuals on this planet with the know-how, the skill, and the cojones to pull off something this massive. Not to mention that you were close to the dragon, and that gives you access. The clincher is that the Service's intelligence division has about eighty percent surety that the president received a call from you just before he drastically altered his scheduled itinerary—"

  "Yes, I made that call. But I was out of the country at that time."

  "Doing what?"

  "Routine business."

  Ryan could feel the sudden flash of anger from Matthews. "Don't lie to me, friend. You don't do routine."

  "All right, then let's just say that my business had nothing to do with—"

  Ryan's wristphone beeped. He gave Matthews a questioning look.

  Matthews nodded.

  Ryan hit the connect button, and the voice of Carla Brooks floated into the still, rotted air of the alley. "I just got off the line with Quentin Strapp, the special investigator for the Scott Commission. Whatever you do, don't slot around with that tail. It's Secret Service, and Strapp says it's routine."

  Matthews threw back his head and laughed.

  Ryan couldn't help but grin. "Uh, Black Angel? I already figured that out. But thanks for the scan."

  "Frag me, Quicksilver, you haven't gone and done anything . . . regrettable, have you?"

  Ryan looked at Phelps, who hadn't moved a muscle. The assault rifle was still centered on his chest. "Not anything irreparable. Thanks for your concern."

  Carla's voice took on the dry tone of a doctor giving a terminal patient the bad news. "Don't thank me yet. When I talked to Strapp, he said for me to detain you until he arrived. He's on his way to the mansion right now."

  "Detain?"

  "Those were his words, not mine, Quicksilver."

  "I don't like those kind of words, Black Angel."

  "Me neither. Something's going down, and it looks like they want to take you along for the ride."

  6

  The afternoon sun shone down on the cliff face, warming the rock with its heat as Lethe listened to the unmistakable rhythm of helicopter blades. Getting louder.

  Lethe fought down the urge to flee from the approaching helicopters. Instead he concentrated on making himself and Burnout invisible to both physical and astral surveillance. The cyberzombie pressed his huge and very noticeable body tight into a narrow rock crevice and looked out at the three Aztechnology Aguilar-EX helicopters that swooped past. Flying confident in attack formation. Sure of their own fire power.

  "They are certain to see me," Burnout said. "I will try to take them down." He anchored himself into the crevasse with his heel spikes and brought automatic weapons to bear on the incoming helos.

  "Wait!" said Lethe. "I have hidden us."

  Burnout hesitated, and the three helos flew past and out of sight, never hesitating. Burnout waited twenty minutes before climbing out of the crack in the cliff face and continuing the ascent. "How did you keep them from seeing us?" he asked.

  "I have the ability to mask myself to all but the most perceptive," Lethe said. "I simply extended that ability to include both of us."

  "I am further in your debt." And that was the last Burnout would say despite all efforts by Lethe to continue the conversation.

  They reached the top of the cliff and passed quickly down the gentle slope on the other side, covered with pines.

  "Just in time," Burnout said as he loped down through the forest.

  "What do you mean?"

  Burnout chuckled. "I've been running on reserve energy since the fight with that blood spirit. My cybernetic parts need electricity to function. That's most of me these days. Another day without charge, and this would have been a lot of work for nothing. We'd have froze up and died where we fell."

  "You can get 'charge' here?" Lethe could see nothing around them but tall pines.

  Burnout laughed. "Power, yes. Listen."

  Lethe concentrated on Burnout's hearing, and suddenly through the soft noises of the wild, he could faintly hear the sound of someone blaring a horn of some kind. "Civilization."

  "Ain't it sweet? But it gets better. According to my GPS, the town right in front of us is a tiny little fly speck called Kooskia. It sits right on the junction of Highways Thirteen and Twelve. It also happens to be a fuel depot for the automated truck trains that cruise the freeway. More charge than I would know what to do with. We can just go in and take as much as we need."

  Lethe thought about that. "The depot will be manned, will it not? I doubt that the attendants will just give you power without some form of reimbursement."

  Burnout laughed. "I'd like to see them stop me. One look at this face, and they'll probably go screaming into the night. The ones that don't will die."

  Lethe didn't like the idea of hurting innocents, and was about to make his viewpoint very clear, when something else occurred to him. "Burnout, something troubles me. In my short association with the man known as Ryan, I learned that he is quite meticulous, smart, and extremely methodical. Isn't this just the sort of clue he'll be looking for?"

  Burnout shrugged. "It's a risk I'm going to have to take. We've been lucky he hasn't found us yet, and I'll try to get in and out without anyone noticing, but I must have power to move. I have to get to the Kodiak soon.

  Besides, even if he does pick up the scent here, we'll lose him soon enough when we hit the open road."

  A few minutes later, under the darkness of oppressive cloud cover, Burnout approached the small town. They circumnavigated the small cluster of houses and roads, moving around to
the southern end of the village where the refueling depot rested in the white glare of lithium lights.

  Burnout scanned the lay of things, pointing them out to Lethe. "Just there, on the far side of that big patch of tarmac," he said, pointing to a small square building with a red neon sign above the doorway. The sign read DEPOT in fanciful curlicues. "Not a very original name for a depot, but it must cut down on any potential confusion," Burnout said with a dry chuckle.

  Lethe didn't understand why Burnout should find that humorous. It seemed perfectly logical that a depot should be called a depot. However, he decided not to make any further comment.

  "Look there. We got one guard by the building's entrance, simple service pistol that probably has half a kilo of rust in the barrel. No track-mounted drones and only minimal video surveillance. Only three attendants. All of them look very bored. Bored is good."

  Burnout moved swiftly, circling around the huge pools of cold blue light. Within minutes, they were at the rear of the building. Moving along the wall in silence. He peeked around the end of the structure, looking out onto the broad expanse of tarmac.

  One of the massive truck trains had pulled in for refueling. The unmanned tractor in the lead was a sleek black Nordkapp-Conestoga Bergen and looked more like it belonged on tracks than wheels. The tractor was controlled by a dogbrain neural network, and behind it were seven self-propelled trailers, each the size of a boxcar. The attendants were busy hooking up fuel lines to the monstrosity.

  Without warning, Burnout stepped into the light just as a guard walked leisurely past them. The man turned toward them in what seemed like slow motion. Burnout had closed the distance before the man's expression changed and had snapped the guard's neck a fraction of a second later.

  Lethe was stunned. Such sudden violence. How could it be necessary?

  Burnout stashed the guard's body behind the building before anyone saw him. He searched the man's clothing and found an ID card. "This," he said, "should get me access to their power grid."