Choose Your Enemies Carefully Page 14

  "The keyboard was quiet, so I came to see what progress you had achieved. You have information?" Chatterjee asked.

  The frustration of the flesh was bad enough. Dodger didn’t need to be reminded of how little he had achieved in the Matrix as well. "Nothing new."

  "Estios will not be pleased."

  "Tough," Dodger snapped. "That slick is never pleased unless he’s got his butt ..."

  "Dodger!" Teresa's voice was suitably chastising, but Dodger caught a hint of her quirky smile.

  So, the lady has not been totally wooed by the party line.

  Chatterjee remained unperturbed. "Your personal evaluation of any member of the team is irrelevant. However, your lack of results is pertinent and distressing. It limits our course of action too much. I had been informed that you were a decker of exceptional competence."

  " 'Tis a fact. For the moment, however, ’tis also a fact that there is no joy in the Matrix."

  "You have exhausted all avenues?"

  "All? A decker of my ‘exceptional competence’? Hardly 'Tis true that I have run all of our current leads to ground. Beyond confirming that the younger Neville is dead, we are no nearer to them than we were on the Solstice."

  "Without their full circle, they are weak," Teresa said.

  "Yet not weak enough," Chatterjee said. "The optimal result would be their complete dissolution, but reduction beyond the ring of three should be sufficient for present purposes."

  "One cannot ‘reduce’ the unknown effectively. We are no closer to naming all of the Circle than we were three weeks ago. And without knowing all of their identities, we dare not move against those we have identified."

  "Precisely," Chatterjee agreed. "You must intensify your endeavors."

  Dodger folded his arms and stared at the ceiling. "Let Estios intensify his."

  "He already has," Chatterjee said.

  He would have. Always going one up. Fragging slick. "Then when he returns with usable data, I shall use it."

  Chatterjee frowned. "Time passes."

  "What matters time to an elf?"

  "Flippancy is inappropriate. Estios prepares for action and we must all be ready to move if the arcane reconnaissance results in useful data. Even if the shaman learns something of worth, it will be unlikely to have much pertinence with regard to your Matrix efforts. I suggest that you immediately pursue whatever avenues remain open."

  "Verily? Then I suggest that you ..."

  "Dodger," Teresa warned.

  Dodger sighed. Baiting Chatterjee wasn’t worth upsetting Teresa. "Perchance I shall try a blind shunt; some of the data we do have should serve as hooks."

  "Explain," Chatterjee ordered.

  So ho, Squire Chatterjee. Must you now acknowledge that the Dodger may indeed be of exceptional competence?"A blind shunt utilizes a sophisticated series of mask and camouflage programs that render transparent a decker’s presence in the Matrix. Unfortunately, the technique leaves the decker vulnerable as well, but what isn’t seen by intrusion countermeasures is not attacked by such defenses. While cloaked, the decker waits; for to take active measures is to destroy the illusion of transparency. The hooks are data bits to which the decker attaches his invisible persona, waiting for the data to move. The assumption is that the hook will be taken legitimately into a place where the decker cannot gain entry through conventional hacking. The procedure takes time, but I don’t see anything else to do. Mayhap we shall be lucky." Teresa reached out and laid her hand on Dodger’s arm. He could feel the electricity through his leathers. She didn’t seem to care that Chatterjee was watching.

  "Dodger," she said. "Don't do that. It’s too dangerous. A blind shunt could drag you into heavy ice."

  "Fear not, fair maid. The Dodger has not yet met the ice that can trap him."

  He was lying, of course. He had been trapped by ice—once and only once. It was an experience that haunted his nightmares. But he didn’t need to fear a repeat of that experience. The artificial intelligence— if that’s what it really was—that controlled the deadly ice lived locked away in the Renraku Matrix, and he was never going to enter that terrible black pyramid again. No matter how slick these druids were, their deckers couldn’t be playing in the same league as the megacorp that controlled most of the world’s public data structures. He would be safe from anything he would encounter.

  Teresa’s eyes bored into his, her expression flickering with an emotion he couldn’t read. Her hand left his arm as she stood. Had she read the lie?

  "Yet," she said softly.

  Dodger was sure she hadn’t intended him to hear.

  18

  The man entering the room was not a man at all. He went by the name Hanson, and looked like a man to the unaided eye, but Andrew Glover knew better. Glover had assensed Hanson when he had first shown up bearing Hyde-White’s letter of introduction, and Glover’s exercise of his mage sight had shown him that Hanson was not human. What Hanson was remained an open question; Glover had never before seen such an aura or astral image. There were no astral image files, no aura records to consult that would reveal what kind of metahuman Hanson was.

  The fat, old man could not have failed to penetrate the illusions cloaking the metahuman from the ordinary eye. So why was he recommending a nonhuman like Hanson?

  Hyde-White had sworn the same oaths as the rest of the Circle, dedicating himself to restoring the rightful monarch and purifying the land. Such purification applied not just to the pollution but to the corrupting influence of metahuman genes as well. Glover’s ancestors had fought to preserve British purity against the influx of the less advanced races. Their struggle seemed petty compared to the battle he fought against the scourge of mutated humanity that threatened to overwhelm even the debased blood of the lower classes.

  Metahumans were little better than beasts, and Hanson, with the bestial aspect he presented astrally, was clearly one of the worst kind.

  Hyde-White was devious, but he was also a practical man. Like all well-brought-up men of his class, he understood the nature of the underclasses. Just as Glover himself did. Which was, of course, the answer. Hanson would only be a tool, a resource to be used up and disposed of when he was no longer useful. That made sense. It was only an unpleasant necessity that required Glover to deal with Hanson personally.

  Hanson seemed unaware of Glover's distaste for him. Or, if he was aware, he was indifferent. Either way suited Glover. Hanson’s repugnant presence was a temporary annoyance, one more burden to bear in the furtherance of the cause.

  "They are ready," Hanson said.

  "Then we should not delay."

  Glover swept past Hanson and entered the room. In its center five people lay bound. They were dregs chosen from the flotsam of the metroplex, three of them orks. They were a far cry from the pure bloodlines of the sacrifices in Neville’s ritual. Glover personally found such submen repugnant. There would be no room for them in his resurrected Britain. The mongrel half-breed foreigners who made up the rest of the sacrifice were little better, but what they were was unimportant. It was what they represented that mattered.

  Power.

  Such sacrificial offerings had given their energy to aid the Circle, restoring the power lost by the deaths of Young Neville and Fitzgilbert. Even without the full nine, Glover could feel that their ritual workings were stronger, and Hyde-White had suggested that they would grow stronger still. Each completion of the cycle would double their power. It was an added benefit that they could purge the land of such misfits while they gathered strength to restore it.

  Too bad there were no elves among tonight’s participants. Their legendary physical beauty belied their deceptive and corrupt natures. They had cost Britain dearly. When the restoration came, they would pay for the land they had stolen and for the souls they had corrupted, but first the Hidden Circle needed strength. He turned his mind to the matter at hand.

  Glover shrugged back the shoulders of his topcoat, revealing the golden pectoral he wore in his office
as archdruid. Hanson’s solicitous hands removed the outer garment. Gordon straightened from where he had been bent over to talk to one of the orks, and took his place among the acolytes. Glover nodded to each of the druids present. Of their diminished circle, only Hyde-White and Neville were absent. Neville would attend the next ritual and Hyde-White the following one as they brought the current cycle to its conclusion.

  As each druid walked solemnly to his appointed place, Glover stretched wide his arms and intoned the blessing. His words called the earth’s spirit to witness the ritual they enacted here tonight for its benefit. The other druids sang counterpoint.

  Across the circle, Gordon echoed his words. His eyes were closed and he spoke with prayerful intensity. Glover suspected that Gordon believed in this new path more fervently than did any of the druids themselves. Glover was pleased. Hyde-White’s tutoring was having a most salutory effect; the royal heir was wholly committed, embracing their course with all his heart.

  Glover was momentarily startled as Gordon’s eyes suddenly opened and met his. The belief he had supposed lay there, mantled in the strength and authority of the true king. Glover bowed, an acknowledgment of Gordon as the heir to the land, its heart and the barometer of its health. The bow was not subservient, though. As the keeper of the land, its magical arm of retribution, and its physician, the archdruid was a sovereign of sorts as well. Both king and archdruid had their spheres of power. Together they would lead the way to a new era.

  Gordon returned a nod to Glover’s bow. The archdruid bowed again, this time to the sacrifices stretched on the floor between them. The derelicts stared with wide eyes, frightened beasts. The first didn’t start to scream until he saw the golden sickle in Glover’s hand.

  19

  Willie’s signal indicated that she had found something of interest in the derelict building. Sam thought that the structure looked unsafe, teetering on the edge of disintegration. That made it just like all of its neighbors. The whole neighborhood seemed to be decaying.

  It had been several hours since they had lost Glover's trail at the edge of the sleazy East End, Sam had held little hope of picking up the druid’s trail, but Estios had insisted that they sweep as much territory as possible. Expecting little, Sam had agreed. They all felt the pressure of time.

  Willie signaled again, just after Sam had conducted his own astral reconnaissance of the building. The whole place had felt uncomfortable, and he hadn’t been able to get a good look at several areas; the psychic static was too strong. It was as if something terrible had happened within, something . . . he really wanted to say evil, but it sounded silly and he had no desire to be laughed at by Estios. He tried to shrug off the sense of foreboding. At least he hadn’t seen any live opponents. Willie’s signal confirmed that there was no one there.

  Estios went in first. The tall elf was arrogant and unlikable. but he had courage. In this benighted part of the plex, there was always the possibility of a trap. Some thrill seeker might set one for kicks, or some paranoid squatter might be defending his stash. Astral senses couldn’t detect mechanical or electronic mechanisms with any reliability and Willie’s sensors weren’t infallable.

  O’Connor remained with Sam and Hart. The division of forces was uneven but had become standard procedure. The suspicious Estios always wanted one of his party with Hart at all times. Sam suspected that O’Connor had orders to kill Hart if anything went wrong.

  Estios waved from the doorway. Trying to appear casual, Sam and the others crossed the street one by one and disappeared into the building. Estios led them to the basement, toward the place where the psychic static had been the worst. Before they reached it, Sam could smell the stink of blood and feces.

  The room was an abattoir. In characteristically opportunistic fashion, the sprawl’s scavengers had gone to work. Already the remains of the butchers’ handiwork were being spread around. Sam counted five skulls, three orks and two norms. Chittering and squalling at the interruption, the scavengers fled.

  Willie’s drone sat in one corner. A red telltale winked several times in greeting as its camera eye swiveled to track the motion of their entrance. The upper ring of blades just under the comm dome began to whirl, buzzing as they did. The lower ring began its counter-rotation. As soon as both sets achieved speed, the drone lifted from the floor and folded its five-part landing gear together into a cone. The halfmeter-long cylinder, with its twin whirring necklaces of distortion, flitted through a window. Willie would be standing sentry while they investigated.

  There were little more to the remains than skeletons. Organs were strewn and dragged around, but there was a noticeable absence of meat. A close look showed that the bones had been cut and there were scrape marks where flesh had been razored away.

  "This is a Bone Boy kill," Estios said.

  "What’s this got to do with the druids?" Sam asked.

  No one answered. Sam stood in the midst of the carnage. He could do no more than stare. He had heard of the Bone Boy killing spree on the media, but it had seemed no more than the everyday violence associated with the overcrowded sprawls. Even the most sensational reports didn't match the reality of standing in the place where helpless victims had died. He understood the psychic static now; his astral senses had been defeated by the pain and suffering of the dead. His stomach roiled.

  "No, Hart," O’Connor said.

  Sam turned to see what she was forbidding Hart to do and found O’Connor staring at the skeleton. Hart and Estios were in conference by a doorway that led deeper into the building. O’Connor had been talking to herself.

  She had said no heart.

  O’Connor looked up to find him staring perplexedly.

  "There’s no sign of the hearts of any of the victims."

  Among all the organic debris, Sam wondered how she could be sure. "It could have been eaten."

  "The other organs have been gnawed. Some have been almost completely devoured, but there’s enough left to identify them. I don’t see any heart tissue at all. The killers must have taken their victims’ hearts along with the flesh."

  "Then, it’s not ghouls," Sam said.

  "Not their pattern," O’Connor confirmed. "They might have taken the meat, but if they were organ eaters, they would have taken the rest as well."

  "The kills were physical, but there is residual spell energy," Estios said.

  "It isn’t random violence," Hart said.

  "Did you seriously think for a minute that it was?" Estios asked sneeringly.

  Sam didn’t like it when Estios talked to Hart that way. His anger leaked heat into his voice. "Why couldn't it be? There are senseless killings every day. The sprawls are full of crazies and people who would kill for any one of a thousand reasons, including the thrill. Some of them even use magic."

  "Why, then?" Hart asked Estios as if Sam had never spoken.

  "Isn’t it obvious?" Estios replied. "It’s a ritual killing."

  "The Hidden Circle?" Sam didn’t really want an affirmative answer.

  "Insufficient data." Hart’s brow furrowed as she thought. "The timing of the Bone Boy spree is suggestive. Our having lost Glover even more so. If he had help, there would have been more than enough time for this atrocity."

  "There was help. Marks in the blood show at least a half dozen individuals," O’Connor said.

  Sam was distracted from the continuing evaluation of the evidence by the receiver he wore tucked in his ear. Its insistent tone told him that Willie had spotted somebody. The coding of the tone said police.

  "Badges coming," he told the others nervously. "We’d better get out of here.

  Estios cast a spell to clean their shoes and garments as they left the massacre room. They would leave no tracks of blood. It was only a short walk to a tube station, where they buried their trail in the crush of humanity.

  20

  Eyes of molten gold stripped away her soul. Janice was as she had been, a human woman. She was weak, powerless. She could not lie to those eyes. T
hey knew when she lied.

  The man with the golden eyes had been asking her questions. It seemed as if her whole existence had been a cycle of questions and answers. He asked and she answered, but somehow her answers didn’t satisfy him. The truth, her father had said, would set her free. She had told the truth and remained shackled.

  "What is your importance to them?" the man asked.

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," she replied.

  "Denial will not save you," he said sternly.

  Pain.

  Her muscles spasmed as the fiery agony shot through her. What had she done to deserve this? She had told the truth. Why wasn’t she free?

  "Tell me."

  "I don’t know!"

  Tears streamed down her face. He touched her shoulder and she flinched. His touch was a spider crawling along her neck and onto her face. She tried to flinch away, but her limbs would not obey her. Something held her in place. She looked down to see dark bands encircling her wrists and ankles. Had the restraints been mere iron, she would had struggled to break them, but her bonds were hard chitinous bands, alien things from which there was no escape.

  "Do not resist."

  Fear seized her. No longer able to endure the horror at his touch, she screamed. Despite the hopelessness, she threw her head from side to side and wrenched at the restraints. She wanted to be free. She had to be satisfied with dislodging the hand which caressed her face.

  "Remarkable."

  The next words were distant, lacking in the obscene clarity of the previous ones. It was as if someone else spoke in a language that she did not understand.

  "It is as you say."

  More bodiless voices murmured to the man and he spoke back. His comments and questions melded with the susurrus of the distant voices until at last he said, "She shall at least be useful."

  A new face rose before her eyes. It was masked and hooded, swathed in cloth of pale green. Dark eyes regarded her without emotion. She might have been a bench. An impossible mouth opened in the masked face, its teeth a glittering array of hypodermic needles. The mouth drew nearer and she screamed again. And again. Unable to move, unable to even turn her head, she stared in deadly fascination as the obscene visage drew closer. Closer. The violator’s lips touched hers and her mouth went numb.