by Carl Sargent
“I cannot tell you that,” Niall said sadly. The man had waited and watched for him all these many long weeks and months, not knowing just why. “If you knew, they would kill you. If I told you more, it would be like putting a knife through your heart here and now.”
“Well, then, that is an end to it,” the man said without any rancor. “You had best be moving. It will be fair spucketing soon enough.”
Niall smiled and shook the hand of his helper. Then the man faded away into the mist and the elf made for the wharf on the shoreline.
He knew at just what height to fly, virtually skimming the surface of the gray Atlantic, to keep from encountering the Veil, the magical barrier of illusion protecting the Irish coast of Tir na nOg. The illusions didn’t trouble him, but the possibility of detection did. Though he knew the coordinates where fluctuations were most likely, he would never get through undetected unless he drew on the power of the cauidron—which he also needed to conserve for the confrontation with Lutair. But I’ll never get anywhere near him if I don’t get through the Veil, he thought. Summoning as little of the vessel’s power as he thought he could risk, he headed for the barrier and onward, across the tip of southwestern Britain and on to Brittany.
* * *
Serrin finally woke up at ten that night, after nearly sixteen hours’ sleep from which an earthquake wouldn’t have roused him. He felt ghastly. His bad leg throbbed like a jackhammer and his head seemed to be throbbing in time with it. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then began to cough long and hard, spitting into a handkerchief. One day, he thought, I really am going to give those damned things up.
He had to shield his eyes against the lights in Michael’s workroom, dimmed though they were. Sitting with fingers poised above his keyboard, the Englishman was immaculate again in a double-breasted blazer, cavalry twill pants, and Italian leather loafers. The cord from the Fuchi was slotted into the silver of his datajack, making Michael oblivious to anything but the electronic reality of the Matrix. Tom was sitting nearby with Kristen standing behind him, braiding the troll’s freshly washed, lustrous black hair. Having never seen Tom’s hair loose, Serrin was astonished that it fell almost to the small of the troll’s back. He was still gazing in wonderment at the sight when the printer on the desk next to Michael disgorged a scrap of paper. Serrin ripped it off and read it.
Don’t forget the lovely Julia, it read.
Confused, certain that Michael couldn’t be registering his presence, Serrin’s thoughts were interrupted by another printed message churning forth.
There’s an IR security monitor in your room, dummy. It was programmed to print these messages out through a printer relay when you opened the door after waking up. Now go and see your lady reporter friend.
“What time is it?” Serrin asked. “Hell, what day is it?”
Tom told him. Kristen smiled shyly at him; unconsciously, the elf scratched a little at the graying stubble on his own head. Tom had an unchallengable superiority on that score.
“Well, why not. If I get kidnapped again, just send for the cavalry like before,” he muttered, getting to his feet.
“Not this time,” Tom said firmly when Serrin explained what he intended doing. “This time, I’m coming with you.”
“So am I,” Kristen said fiercely, hurrying up her work. She looked very different now. Though she was dressed in a silk shirt of Michael’s that was too big for her, Serrin thought she looked especially fine. She’d also hit the drug store, he guessed, noticing that she’d made herself up some. Then he was annoyed at himself. We’re up to our ears in drek, he told himself angrily. What’s the matter, Serrin? Can’t you keep your mind off the ladies and focused on business?
“No. Better stay with Michael,” Serrin told her. “If he gets into trouble, he’ll need somebody to pull the plug on that jack mighty fast. Has he told you anything about—”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know. Don’t worry. Go and get it done.”
The strength of her voice and the determination in her tone told Serrin that more had changed than just her appearance. He very much wanted to stay and talk with her, but that wasn’t possible. If it was true they had a day or two, most of one day had already elapsed. She finished braiding and stood back to admire her handiwork. Then Tom turned around and smiled at her, thanking her as he got to his feet.
“The good news is,” Tom said as they rode down in the elevator, “we don’t have to take a cab. Michael trusted me with his car keys.”
“Is he all right?” Serrin fretted. “I mean, he took that bullet wound. Can he really risk running the matrix right now?”
“It wasn’t bad. A flesh wound. He lost some blood, but he got some kind of shot once we got here. Erythrocyte enhancer,” Tom said, uncertain of the words. “Iron, all kinds of drek. I fixed him up too. He’s fine now.
“Shouldn’t we phone the lady first and see if it’s all right to come over? It’s getting a little late.”
“Frag that!” Serrin said with feeling. “I’m not worrying about the social graces. She didn’t.”
“She may be out,”
“Then we’ll break in,” the elf said simply.
That, however, was not necessary. The door opened almost immediately after they arrived at Julia’s apartment and knocked loudly on her door.
“Julia, you owe me one,” Serrin said to her through the narrow gap in the door allowed by the heavy steel chain. “Something tells me you just might have a friend who knows a friend who could help me out with some info I couldn’t find in any library—but don’t even think about getting another story out of this one.”
* * *
Michael jacked out of the Zulu Nation system damned fast when the black IC threatened. He could get the rest, he was sure, from international registries. What he had now was enough for a very good start.
Giving himself a few minutes’ rest while gulping down some coffee, he was acutely aware of the girl sitting cross-legged on his sofa. The cold realization had already hit him that with that card, officially authenticated by UCAS immigration, in her bag, she was probably legally entitled to a straight fifty per cent of everything he had. At the time, it had seemed logical, the only thing to do. Damn it, it had been logical. It had also been the stupidest act he’d ever committed in his life. Michael didn’t like the idea of logic and stupidity going together. Now he really couldn’t think what to say to her. Burying himself in work had seemed the only thing to do.
And he’d found exactly what he’d expected in his little matrix run. The owners of the Babanango piant were a tiny firm called Amalgamated Photosynthetics, registered as a subsidiary with HKB, Britain’s financial conglomerate. That meant HKB acted as a forwarding address for the real owners. For this service, the megacorp took either a fixed fee, or a percentage, depending on what their shark-skinned accountants decided was the best deal. HKB had a special division devoted purely to such leasing deals, but it was not part of the British-based corporation—not so far as international law was concerned. It existed somewhere among thirty underdeveloped countries which took the crumbs HKB threw out to them and didn’t ask questions. Trying to get into the divisional system to find out who had a piece of British Industrial and at least most of Amalgamated Photosynthetics would be plumb crazy. HKB had more IC than nature had needed to sink the Titanic. Michael knew he couldn’t do it. He also knew that if he didn’t, they were never going to find their quarry. Unless of course Serrin’s reporter friend had a precise fix, but that would be too much like counting on sheer good luck.
“Why did you do it?”
He swiveled around in his chair. “What else could we do? We had to get back here. There were at least two groups trying to take Serrin out back in Azania, maybe more. He wouldn’t go without you. If we’d tried to use your fake IDs to get you into New York, they’d have had you on a rustbucket straight back to Azania the instant we arrived in Manhattan. And we didn’t have time to get a passport officially.”
“Bu
t you don’t even know me.”
“Well, not much. Maybe it had something to do with you rounding up all those Indian samurai. Without them, Serrin would be dead now. Maybe I was just a little overgrateful. I wasn’t really thinking straight. I’d lost a fair bit of blood, apparently.”
Kristen lit one of Serrin’s cigarettes, not that she liked them much. She missed the potency of what she was used to. She decided not to ask him, again, why he hadn’t let Serrin be the one. All he would say was the same thing about not wanting to ruin things for them. He’d also told her about divorce, how easy it would be after the statutory year together.
“I won’t take anything,” she said quietly. She curled herself up into an almost fetal position, looking for all the world as if she was about to cry. He got up and went to sit down beside her, slipping an arm around her narrow shoulders.
“What am I doing here?” she said, choking back hot tears. “I don’t know anything about this city. I can’t live here. And now I got a fraggin’ husband? Me got a husband I met four days ago. Is it four?”
“Slot me if I can remember,” Michael said, giving her a somewhat dazed smile. She dropped her hands from her face, looking halfway between bursting into tears and helpless laughter. His smile tipped the scales in favor of the latter.
By the time her hilarity had calmed down, he’d poured himself a gin. Then he saw from her expression that she’d like one too. He dumped in ice from the bucket and topped it with limed tonic.
“What about me? How am I going to explain it to my family? Of course, by now they’ve decided that I probably like boys, getting to my age and still unmarried.”
“Do you?” she asked him.
“Hell, no. I love computers.”
She poked him in the ribs, surprisingly hard. He fought hard to keep the mouthful of drink down.
“I do love him,” she said suddenly and emphatically. Michael felt uncomfortable again, didn’t know what she was going to say next.
“I know,” he said almost sadly. “He loves you too.” He couldn’t think of anything more helpful.
“Then why doesn’t he want me?”
Michael thought for a moment. “Um, well, I guess if I’d had to run from tabloid snoops, been shot at with trank cartridges, traveled to a half-dozen countries in a week, been kidnapped, nearly blown away with a machine gun, had to rely on a bunch of people I hardly knew, and then ended up learning that some crazy vampire elf mage was about to bring Armageddon down—whichever way that’s going to be and we haven’t figured it out yet—I probably wouldn’t be thinking much about romance, either. I mean, that’s a drekload to worry about.” He was silently praying for Serrin and Tom to knock at the door right now.
“But how can I know what he really feels? Is he going to change?”
Michael got to his feet. This was really too much for him. “Kristen, remember those sacred vows. That halfdefrocked Boer gave us a pretty traditional variety. You promised to obey your husband, I’m afraid. Terribly incorrect politically. But that’s what you said. So, you ask Serrin when he gets back; I know him even less well than you do. For now, girl, keep quiet and let me get back to work.” He wagged an admonishing finger at her in fun; she just smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
Michael prepared to jack back in. He wasn’t going to wait for Serrin and Tom to return. Confronting HKB’s defenses would at least let him do what he was good at. Then, cursing himself for his stupidity, he retired to his bedroom and made the call to London.
“Geraint, old boy, can we get an encrypted line?”
“Sure.” The Welshman’s rich voice greeted him with the old familiarity. “How’s it going?”
“You owe me a fortune, term. Wait until you see my bill.”
Geraint sighed, running the fingers of one hand through his dark hair. “Is it finished, then? You’re through?”
“Not quite. Listen, old friend, I need some help,”
“Fire away.”
“You’re not going to like this,” Michael warned him. “So?”
“I mean, you're really not going to like this,” Michael stressed. Geraint waited, his face on the screen expressionless. “I’ve got to find out something about corporate ownership of a certain subsidiary. HKB is handling it through the corporate licensing division.”
“I can’t do that,” Geraint said. “Everything’s traced. Not a chance.”
“You don’t have to deck into their system to do it. There are records, hard copy. You’re a director, after all. This little corp is obscure and poses absolutely no threat to HKB’s interests. The information wouldn’t be sensitive in any way.”
“I’m afraid, old boy, that everything in those files is sensitive information. If it wasn’t, people wouldn’t pay us to handle anonymous ownerships,” Geraint said drily. “They pay us precisely to make sure that no one finds out.”
“Geraint, we’re on to something big. To borrow an old line of the Dame’s, this ain’t rock and roll, this is genocide.” Michael then gave his friend a rundown of what they’d learned and seen.
Geraint had finished his first cigarette and was halfway through a second, lit from the first, by the time Michael fell silent.
“We don’t know exactly what this elf is up to. Except that he’s concocting some kind of drug, and it wipes humans out. That’s you and me, old boy. Fancy turning into a zombie?”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Geraint said nervously, but sounded dubious about his own statement. “Struth, this is more than my own life’s worth. Decking into HKB records.”
“But you can do it,” Michael insisted.
“I need four hours. I’ve got to cover my butt somehow,” Geraint said. His face had turned very pale now. “You’ve got my number.”
Michael wouldn’t need the double-check on the Squeeze connection now. Which saved him a double-dip into the IC.
* * *
The telecom beeped at half-past two, then the image of Geraint’s face came on the screen glowering at Michael.
“I’m going to Hong Kong for a few days on business,” the Welshman said quietly. “I’ve fixed it so someone else will take the rap on this one. I don’t want to be around when it happens.”
“Well?” Michael urged him.
“The company’s registered in Vienna. You’ll have to deal with the Viennese matrix; I wasn’t going to try to find out who owns the damn thing from the HKB files,” Geraint muttered, and gave him the address. He didn’t even wait for thanks or goodbye, breaking the connection as soon as Michael had written down the details.
The Englishman was about to jack into his deck when Serrin and Tom came into the room, back from their visit with Julia Richards.
“We’ve got two possibles,” the elf said urgently. “One in the Ukraine and one outside Regensburg. Julia’s got a friend who’s still scoping it for us.”
“The company that owns Amalgamated Photosynthetics is based outside Vienna,” Michael told them. “I’m about to go hunting for the owners. If we get a match to a name, or a location, then we know.”
“Then what are we going to do?” Kristen asked. “That’s a bloody good question,” Michael told her. “We’ll be damned lucky if we can come up with an answer.”
24
Luther rampaged through the corridors, bellowing like a minotaur, smashing everything around him with inhuman strength as Martin watched him on the closed circuits. Luther had foreseen this, of course; he had sealed the laboratory behind himself to make sure he didn’t destroy his precious work. Now he was wholly out of control, blood raging in a torrent of fire through his body. When he was done smashing the serried ranks of statuettes and busts, he finally caught sight of the young mage.
Luther threw himself onto the young man, like a hyena pouncing on a fallen member of the herd. Jaws clamped like a vice on his throat, one clawed hand gripped for the ribs, the other for the mage’s chest, over his heart. The man screamed, writhing, unable to bring his hands up to defend himself. They
twitched in their bonds at his back. Luther’s canines struck the carotid and salty blood filled his mouth, running down over his chin as he sucked greedily at the warmth of it. He drew his face away from the man’s throat and gazed into his eyes.
Forcing the mage down to his knees and then prone onto the floor, he crouched over him. The young elf’s face was distorted into a living death mask, his eyes wild and unfocused. Luther knelt over the body and drank in his victim’s terror and fear as eagerly as he had the blood. The man’s deathly fear and panic excited him, fed him as surely as the blood did; he loved the leeching away of a living soul, drew power from it.
Luther struggled to hold back the ravenous beast inside, savoring every second of exultation and pleasure the dying gave him. Then the hunger burst like a disintegrating dam and he tore the elf’s throat apart, hands clutching either side of the lolling head. He fastened himself to the neck, the blood saturating his hands and chest. The rich crimson flood held the last of the agonies of the dying mage, life-blood filled with death-fear, the delight of it overwhelming him. Luther’s body spasmed like a huge, pallid leech rippling with peristalsis as it gorged itself.
Martin came to him as he lay whimpering beside the corpse, wiping great smears of sticky blood from his face and hands. Luther’s hands shook uncontrollably. Martin took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and tended to him as lovingly as any mother to her newborn.
“I knew, Your Grace,” he said softly. “I knew it would be necessary. Now all will be well.”
Luther looked at him with a momentary incomprehension. He coughed, a choking heave from the back of his throat, and his eyes glazed over. He vomited dark, sticky blood onto the floor, retching horribly. Martin put his hands under the other elf’s arms and dragged him to his feet, holding him upright until he could stand on his own again.
“Ah, Martin.” Luther was calm again, or at least in control of himself. “You always provide.”
“Will you bathe, Your Grace?”
“There is no time,” Luther said, irritably picking at the clotting viscosities on his sleeves and collar. “It is so very close. Perhaps by noon. The first batches after nightfall. The helicopters should be here by dawn tomorrow. We can begin distribution then.”