“Oh my God!” I said.
Gilgamesh went from holding my hand to holding my body like a shield, between me and Keaton. “Then she’s real,” he said.
I gritted my teeth.
Keaton turned to face us. “So you get this too, Gilgamesh?”
He nodded. “In one of my meditation forms. It’s still chaotic.”
“Damn.”
Keaton met my gaze. “Mine are chaotic as well, although they’ve recently changed form due to something I did by accident while incarcerated,” I said.
“I’ve known you’ve had these chaotic dreams ever since you joined me in Philadelphia. What’s this about a change?”
“After Biggioni revealed the untagged Transform in peri-withdrawal to me, I went a little nuts. One of my dream people, the evil princess in white, had taken over my dreams and locked out the Madonna. I burned juice to let the Madonna back in. Ever since then my dreams have been of, um, ma’am…your bed.”
“Those must be good dreams, then, as you always did like your sex.” Sardonic smile.
“Yes, ma’am. My earlier dreamscape was a pinball machine, where pinballs chased me around.”
“Interesting. The fantastic creatures in my swamp represent real people. The Madonna is the best known; in the real world she’s the Focus called the Madonna of Montreal, who was once named ‘Focus’, one of the members of a legendary group of Canadian Transforms, the Lost Tribe, along with a Crow known of as ‘Crow’, who we all know by the name of Sky.”
“They’re our friends,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Keaton said. “They’ve certainly helped you. The Madonna’s the one who told me you had transformed, for instance. Told not in words. It’s hard to explain.”
I nodded. A lot of things became clearer. “The evil princess in white I think is Focus Patterson.”
“That make sense. She appears to me as a swamp will-o-the-wisp, always trying to lead me into danger,” Keaton said. “I’ve only been able to pin a name on one other, the frog in a fancy waistcoat: Focus Keistermann, the ditz Focus who’s President of the Focus Council. Only the ‘ditz’ is just a disguise. She’s a hell of a sharp Focus, perhaps the only Focus with enough spine to spar with Patterson.”
“The Madonna’s the only one who appears to me as anything other than a glowing dot,” Gilgamesh said. “I’m not very poetic, I’m afraid.”
“The point I’m making is that none of us should get cocky about what wondrous things we can do as Major Transforms,” Keaton said. “We’re small fry, pawns in the games of beings far more powerful than we are. Being paranoid is necessary. It really is us against the world.”
On this cheery note Keaton, now feeling much more proper as our leader and boss, dismissed us for the evening. Gilgamesh and I had our teary goodbye; he promised to catch up to me once he completed his mission and I secured myself a new territory.
I had to stick a knife in my hand to keep from having a total breakdown as he walked off into the dark dark night.
Gilgamesh: April 18, 1968
Gilgamesh cleaned out his apartment, tossing everything that didn’t fit into his car. Then he had to repair his car, as the battery cables had corroded from disuse while the car sat dormant during Tiamat’s recovery. He failed to get his money back for his paid-in-advance flophouse room; staying the extra four days he had paid for wasn’t worth it.
He sat, not at all happy, unable to entice himself away from his metasense and the two Arms. They were exercising again. Oh, look, now they were sparring. Some more Arm dross would be good, and…
He was stalling and he knew it. He didn’t have the remotest idea how to start his mission. He meditated on the question, giving the mission a lot of thought…oh, hell, there went Tiamat flying across the Skinner’s gym with the Skinner in her face. They better do the tagging thing soon or Tiamat would be wearing Skinner scars again.
Dammit.
He needed to get out of here. Perhaps he would go visit Thomas the Dreamer. He had met Thomas once, back as a baby Crow, less than a couple of months after he had gotten his name. Thomas had impressed him, the most honorable senior Crow he had met. Why then had Thomas signed the letter? Why would…
If Tiamat kept cooking those incredible meals the Skinner was going to get fat.
Gilgamesh’s stomach rumbled.
Okay, okay. Time to get moving.
There was something else he needed to do, a bit of curiosity to satisfy, likely nothing to do with his mission at all. Some half-assed senior Crow still haunted the San Francisco area, one with lousy enough metasense shielding that Gilgamesh could pick him up on a regular basis when he worked downtown. Said Crow only appeared between the hours of 1 PM and 10 PM. The timing gave Gilgamesh about a half hour to kill.
Oh, the Skinner had to be lecturing again. She always paced when she lectured…
---
The location turned out to be, of all things, a fancy art gallery cheekily named ‘Birds of a Feather’. Gilgamesh thanked the Skinner for forcing him to buy a new suit, and although his suit needed dry cleaning, it still looked good enough for a place this fancy. Gilgamesh felt a little trepidation over his actions, a little panicked, and realized he hadn’t thought meeting this Crow merited his panic-reducing meditations.
Hmm.
Gilgamesh walked in, determined yet skittish. He found the art on display confusing (when abstract), silly (when pieces of found art) and garish (when said artist was attempting to make a political statement, such as the Lyndon Johnson trash can). This gallery displayed the works of over a dozen artists, and if there was a theme in the collection, it was far beyond Gilgamesh’s meager comprehension.
The Crow, who hadn’t yet greeted Gilgamesh, was a tall thin young man with a narrow nose and slick black hair. Close, Gilgamesh sensed enough of his glow to realize he was far more talented and potent than his lousy metasense shielding implied.
None of the art here had any dross on it. On the other hand, he metasensed quite a few pieces of dross artwork in a back room of the gallery, an area not open to the public.
Gilgamesh waited, not particularly enjoying himself. Finished with his chat with some customers, the senior Crow finally wandered over about twenty minutes later. “Greetings, Gilgamesh,” the Crow said, the cadences of his speech gentle and courteous. “I am glad to find you so well. I had feared, when you eventually showed up in Birds of a Feather, you would be a mess. We haven’t met before, alas. My name is Chevalier.”
Chevalier. The senior Crow who backed Echo. Gilgamesh eased back a step, wondering if his lengthy mission was about to turn into a very short failure. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” Gilgamesh said. “You’re the only Crow I’ve found who’s been willing to share a city with an Arm since the Philadelphia Massacre, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to you.”
“You’re on the run, then?” Chevalier said. He motioned toward the back room, the one with the dross art, and led Gilgamesh there. When Gilgamesh entered the room he realized the place had impressive metasense shields as well as many other dross-works beyond his understanding. The room also served as a storage room for normal art not on display. “This will be safe. I’m most glad to see you have finally realized the danger of the Arms and escaped their horror.”
Yes, this was indeed Chevalier. He probably still thought Arms couldn’t talk. “Actually, sir, I’m not on the run from the Arms, but on a mission given to me by three of your peers.”
“A mission?” Chevalier went behind a counter, took out a feather duster, and started to dust the stored artwork. “I find this interesting and unexpected. Am I mentioned? Surely not.”
“No, sir. Neither directly nor indirectly.” Something about this room relaxed Gilgamesh, making him chattier than normal. Making him think Chevalier was his friend.
The room played with his mind. Typical senior Crow behavior. Gilgamesh shook his head and concentrated, but he couldn’t shake whatever Chevalier’s room did to him.
/> “Then it isn’t my business,” Chevalier said, with a haughty sniff. “Unless you would care to share.” Chevalier dusted an ornate bust, realist style, and realized it showed three heads, each pointing a different direction: Chevalier, Innocence and Shadow. Some of the normal art here was Crow made, too!
“You may find the letter disquieting,” Gilgamesh said. “If your reputation is correct, my mission deals with matters far outside your interests. If you are curious, though, I have no problem showing you the letter.”
“Curious, yes, and worried as well,” Chevalier said. “I advise all who call me Guru to avoid all contact with other Transforms. History has shown no good will come of such contacts.”
“Some contacts cannot be avoided,” Gilgamesh said, thinking of the Beast Men who still haunted his dreams, hunting him. He handed Chevalier the letter, who read it and handed the letter back to Gilgamesh with a flourish, shaking his head and sighing an overly artful sigh.
“Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, when will you ever learn,” Chevalier said. “Yes, my rapidly maturing Crow friend, the letter is indeed from Thomas, as is this scheme you’ve been caught up in. I do have to make you an offer, although it is mildly inappropriate. Extenuating circumstances etcetera etcetera, such as being a Crow with a conscience. If you wish to become one of my flock, I can save you from this onerous mission.”
Gilgamesh licked his lips. He would rather go back to being Keaton’s domestic servant. Chevalier was overly civilized, in his opinion. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I’m afraid I must turn it down,” Gilgamesh said. “May I show you something?”
“Certainly,” Chevalier said. If anything, he looked relieved Gilgamesh hadn’t taken him up on his offer. The senior Crow put down his feather duster and stuck his hands behind his back.
Gilgamesh took out one of his rotten eggs and triggered it, creating a life-sized dross-art sculpture of Enkidu in his wolf-man form. “I’m no artist, sir, but I created this from my memories, as best as possible for one of my meager talents.” Compared to a real picture, or real dross art, it was closer to a cartoon than the real Enkidu.
“A Beast-Man,” Chevalier said. “Having heard of your Philadelphia exploit, I may impolitely render a guess that this is Enkidu. Such a foul Beast he is.” Chevalier sniffed. “Foul smell as well. You aren’t half bad at this, you know, Gilgamesh.”
“I try.” Gilgamesh paused. “It’s my hypothesis that Enkidu, a personal enemy of mine, is working with the Crow Killer. Although I might wish some other Crow would do my mission for me and save me from the dangers involved, I have no objection to the mission. The mission must be done.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Chevalier said. “They hunt us, these Beast-Men, and someone of power directs them. Crow Killer shows more talent than any Beast should have, though, and the Beast-Men danger strikes me as far separate from the dangers of the Crow Killer. Beyond that, I do not wish to speculate; as you have correctly intimated this issue lies far beyond my area of expertise. Now, let me show you something.”
“Certainly.”
Chevalier conjured up a dizzying array of dross constructs, shadows of dross reeking of efficiency and complexity. One slowly moved toward Gilgamesh, extended a pseudopod into his head, and stopped. Gilgamesh stood stock still, panic-ready to flee, yet unwilling to move and disturb the dross construct in play.
“Wiggle the tip of the teacher-construct,” Chevalier said. Gilgamesh took a moment, but he was able to do so, using the same tricks allowing him to manipulate and consume dross. “The location is special; it’s the place in your brain where your memories interact most directly with your ability to manipulate dross. Get a feel for its wiggle; if you master the wiggle, you will be able to bring up your Enkidu cartoon without having to store it ahead of time in whatever strange contrivance you have created, at least in quiet surroundings. I fear that heavy emotions would ruin such a trick, alas, without excess practice. This is, for instance, the method your compatriot in inappropriate Crow activities, Sky, uses to store his signature night sky illusion.”
Gilgamesh understood, despite the unfamiliar terminology. This would be useful in non-stress situations. “Thank you, sir.”
“Now if you have any pull with those Arms, it would be most kind of you to convince them to decamp to another location. Far away. I find having to actually wear metasense protections on a day to day basis to be highly distasteful.”
Gilgamesh bit the inside of his lower lip, mostly to stifle laughter. “Returning at the present time would put a strain on my relations with them, sir, one I do not wish to risk.” The Skinner called such comments ‘Transform doublespeak’ and encouraged him to master this somewhat distasteful verbal art form.
“I feared as much. I sense an urge for you to be on your way, to be as far away from the Arms as you can be.” True. However, the last thing he wanted to explain was the fact he was in love with one of the Arms and feared his own cheating emotions could easily lure him back.
“Thank you, sir. I will be on my way.”
And he was, as fast as his feet could politely take him.
Chapter 4
Anti-bullying policies are nothing more than a Transform Conspiracy, Rev. Loomis says. “You know what they want…”
“Hunter Activity Near Chicago and Media Responses”
Carol Hancock: April 19, 1968
Keaton said she would tag me if I proved myself an Arm by completing a solo hunt, and I had been bouncy and high ever since. Only four days had passed since my last kill and my relatively low juice wasn’t enough to damp my enthusiasm. I could bench press two hundred and fifty pounds. I had taught myself enough of an old chop-socky movie trick of leaping and fighting in mid-air to rate Keaton’s rapt attention. She said I fought like Focus Rizzari, though. Her comment brought a warm glow to my heart and a suspicion my change to a more Rizzari-like physique after my withdrawal episode hadn’t been at all coincidental.
All this papered over a sense of dread. I hid something from Keaton: after Gilgamesh left I was pretty sure my IQ dropped about forty points. I didn’t like this, no, not at all. The bitch Teas was right. The juice was alive, intelligent and out to get us.
To hunt I had to drive. To drive, I had to have a vehicle. I asked Keaton what she would prefer me to do about wheels and she provided me with a beat up ’63 Dodge. I hunted. Keaton said not to bother with a hunt grid, just hunt by instinct. I wondered if she had something up her sleeve, but the question fell out of my mind when I found a juice trace of an untagged Transform. I followed the juice trace until it went into an office building. Since office buildings blocked my metasense, I slipped in, putting together an impromptu disguise from the duffel Keaton prepared for me. I made a passable temp secretary if you didn’t look too close.
My victim turned out to be a low-end insurance problem solver of some kind or another. His telephone was his life. He looked ill to me, poor man. At lunch, I went up to him, introduced myself as Martha from marketing, and talked him into taking me to lunch. On the way to his car, I convinced him he needed to go to a hospital because of his illness. He was kind enough to let me drive.
We didn’t go anywhere near a hospital. Instead, he went with me to a quiet secluded vacant apartment where he died in my arms, after I convinced him to write a suicide note. Following some hints I picked up, and with a better sense for magic, I concentrated on ‘getting back to being a real Arm’ when I took his juice.
I didn’t know if my trick worked, but I definitely came out of my swoon feistier. My disposal plan this time was the classic blow your brains out suicide in a public location. Getting him to the location I chose was a challenge, but my muscle tone was improving.
I drove back to Keaton’s place, afterwards, chortling and enjoying myself. She glared at me for attitude problems but had no complaints about my hunt. She did say she wanted to understand what I was doing when I hunted now.
“Easier to show than explain,” I said. Especially when I had to burn
juice to put more than two words in a goddamned sentence. Sticking in a ‘ma’am’ wasn’t worth the effort when it cost juice.
“Show,” Keaton said. I was getting on her nerves.
I took her to where I found the juice trace. The juice trace hadn’t moved, lying on the ground.
“There,” I said. “Can you sense the juice trace?”
“No,” Keaton said. “This is insane.”
“No, it isn’t.” I pointed the juice trace out to her. Repeatedly. No matter what I did, she couldn’t sense the juice trace. She did believe me; I certainly wasn’t trying to hide the truth or pull the wool over her eyes. Lying wouldn’t have been proper teamwork.
“So you basically can metasense where Transforms have been?” Keaton said. I nodded. “Tell if they are prey quality or not?” That is, whether they were tagged. I nodded again and let it show in my face that I couldn’t identify the tag, just whether the Transform was tagged or not. “What drawbacks does your new sense have?” She knew there was no free lunch. Gain something in one area, lose something in another.
“I can’t sense into autos, busses or office buildings anymore,” I said.
Keaton looked like she had sucked on a lemon. “You’ve lost parts of the basic metasense. Was this something you worked at in Chicago or did it show up after I brought you back from withdrawal?”
“Just here.”
She had known my metasense was funky, but she hadn’t wanted to press the issue until Gilgamesh left. “So how long does a trace last?”
I waved my hands in the air and tried to explain what I had seen on my hunt. “A day. Less? It sits there. It drifts, too. Wind. Lots of wind? Gone! Water sprinkler? Gone!”
“How far away can you sense a trace?”
“Over to the fourth light pole.”
No Sorrow Like Separation (The Commander Book 5) Page 8