by Simon Hawke
She turned on a small flashlight and went around behind Paul's desk. "All right," she said. "Let's just hope Paul's computer isn't spellwarded."
She turned it on. The screen came on with a soft pinging sound and the computer said, "Hi! My name is Pancho. Who are you?"
"I'm a friend of Paul's," said Kira. "I need to take a download by modem."
"Are you authorized access?"
"Of course, I'm authorized access. I'm doing this for Paul."
"At four o'clock in the morning?"
"What's the matter, you never heard of pulling an all-nighter to work on a paper?"
"If you'd prepared in advance and budgeted your study time, you wouldn't need to pull all-nighters."
"So sue me, I waited till the last minute, okay? Besides, I was helping Paul grade some papers for the first-year students and I fell a bit behind on my own work. You think it's easy being a graduate assistant, you try it sometime."
"Are you sure you're not after Paul's exam notes?" the computer asked uncertainly.
"No, I'm not after his exam notes. I told you, I need to call New York and take a download from a friend of mine. He's helping me with some research."
"Because if you're after Paul's exam notes, those files are locked, you know."
Kira sighed. "Fine, they're locked. I told you, I'm not interested in his exam notes, okay? I need to call New York."
"Does Paul know you'll be billing this call to his office?"
"Yes, he knows. He said I could do it. I'll pay him back, all right?"
"Because that's a long-distance call, you know."
"Okay! It's a long-distance call! I know!"
"You needn't raise your voice."
"Who are you talking to in there?" the Broom asked, sticking its head—or rather, its pole—in through the door.
"The computer. Now get back out there and do like I told you."
"Well, you needn't snap at me. I'm only trying to help."
"Who are you talking to?" the computer asked.
Kira rolled her eyes. "Never mind. It's just a friend of mine." She looked around the desk. "I don't see the modem."
"It's internal," the computer replied. "Haven't you done this before?"
"I'm not all that great with computers, Pancho. What do I do to call New York?"
"Easy. You just give me the number and I'll take care of the rest. Are you going to require a printout?"
"Yes, please."
"You'll have to turn on the printer."
"All right, hold on a see . . . Got it."
"Fine. Is the paper loaded?"
"Yep."
"Okay. Give me the number."
Kira gave Pancho the number for their line in New York. Pancho dialed rapidly and a moment later she heard the signal of Archimedes coming on line.
"Hey, you!" said Pancho. The words "Hey, you!" appeared on the screen.
"What?" answered Archimedes. His reply appeared on the screen, too. "Who is this?"
"This is Pancho. I'm Professor Paul Ramirez's computer, calling from Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Hi, Pancho. This is Archimedes. I'm Billy Slade's computer."
"Archimedes? I recall that name from my memory banks. Didn't Professor Merlin Ambrosius once have a computer named Archimedes?"
"Yes, that's me. I belong to Billy Slade now."
"You're Merlin's old computer? My goodness! You're famous! I've never interfaced with anybody famous before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything, Pancho. What can I do for you?"
"I have Kira here. She says she needs a download from you."
"Ah, good. You have audio pickup?"
"Of course. Shall I put her on?"
"Please."
"One moment, please. Go ahead, Kira."
"Archimedes?"
"Hi, Kira! What's up?"
"Archimedes, you recall the file on that certain individual we spoke about? The one you got from your special friend?"
"Ah, yes, of course. I have that for you. Should I send it downline?"
"Please."
"You're going to pull a printout?"
"Yes, I'm all set. I am all set, right, Pancho?"
"Anytime you're ready," Pancho said.
"Okay, here comes," said Archimedes.
As the file started to appear on Pancho's screen, the printer began to print it out.
After a moment Pancho broke in. "Excuse me, but isn't this a confidential B.O.T. personnel file?"
"Yes, that's right," said Kira as the file continued to print out.
"I thought you said you were doing some research," Pancho said.
"That's right. It's for Paul."
"Are you quite certain you're authorized access to this file?" Pancho asked.
"Well, if I wasn't authorized access to it, how would I have gotten it?" asked Kira.
"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."
"Okay, that's it," said Archimedes. "You got it?"
"Got it," Kira said. "It's just about finished printing out."
"Anything else you need?"
"No, that'll do for now, thank you, Archimedes. Any messages?"
"Just one. Should I send it along?"
"Yeah, go ahead. Pancho, just have it print out with the file, okay?"
"No problemo."
A moment later Archimedes said, "Okay, that's it."
"All right, thank you, Archimedes."
"Give my regards to the gang," said Archimedes.
"I will. Bye now."
"Bye."
"Good-bye, Archimedes," Pancho said. "It was a pleasure and a privilege interfacing with you. Maybe we can do it again sometime?"
"Anytime, Pancho. You got my number. Just give a call and we'll play a few games or swap some programs."
"Gee, I'd like that. Thanks!"
"Don't mention it. Bye."
"Bye."
Kira tore the paper out from the printer. "Okay, Pancho, thanks," she said.
"Thank you," said Pancho. "I always like to make new friends."
"My pleasure, Pancho. Good night, now."
"Good night."
She turned the computer off and scanned the printout with her flashlight. It was a copy of agent Megan Leary's Bureau file. And at the bottom of it was appended the message that Archimedes had sent along.
"Damn," said Kira softly as she read it.
It was a message from Mona. Archimedes had asked her to keep track of any Bureau of Thaumaturgy activity relating to Santa Fe, New Mexico. The message told her that in addition to agent Leary, the Bureau had also dispatched a half a dozen undercover agents to Santa Fe. She had a complete list of their names, their cover identities, and where they would be staying. Suddenly the lights in the office came on.
"Find anything interesting?" a woman's voice said.
Startled, Kira looked up to see a slim, attractive blond woman in her thirties standing in the doorway. Her hair was long and curly, worn in a shaggy, penned mane. She was dressed in a well-tailored gray suit and a light blue silk blouse, and her face was a match for the photo of B.O.T. agent Megan Leary on the printout. In one hand, she held Broom, and though Broom had no mouth for her to cover, it was going, "Mmmpf! Mmmmpf!" And in her other hand, Megan Leary held a gun.
"Shit," said Kira.
They pulled up beside the stolen patrol car. It was empty. Overhead, the sky was beginning to turn gray with the first light of dawn. Loomis and Paul got out of the car. Suddenly there was a soft chuffing sound and Loomis felt the angry buzz of a bullet whizzing past his ear.
"Drop the gun or the next one hits your shoulder, Loomis."
They couldn't see where the voice was coming from.
Loomis grimaced and slowly took his gun out of its holster. "You mind if I just lay it down?" he asked. "These things cost money, you know."
An answering chuckle came from somewhere nearby. "Go ahead. But don't be foolish, Joe. I'm a dead shot."
Loomis slowly and carefully laid the gun down and then s
tepped away from it. A moment later Modred emerged from the shadows, holding his silenced Colt semiautomatic.
"And to think I got you a permit for that thing," said Loomis dryly. "I oughtta have my head examined."
"Don't feel too badly, Joe. I generally carry it concealed without a permit."
"I figured. What's a little thing like gun control to a professional assassin?"
Modred stopped and glanced at Paul. "You told him?"
"He told me everything," said Loomis, but Modred caught the slight shake of Paul's head and nodded.
"I see," he said, speaking to Paul, though Loomis thought he was talking to him.
"Don't blame Paul," said Loomis. "I made him do it. He was afraid that I was going to shoot first and ask questions later."
"And would you have?"
"Maybe I should have. You did."
"Yes, but I only fired a warning shot," Modred replied. "On the off chance that you would have fired first."
"You're a careful man," said Loomis. "I can see how you survived as long as you have. If I didn't know better, I would've thought that Paul had flipped his lid." He shook his head. "No wonder you didn't tell me up front. It's the damnedest story I ever heard."
"It's just as well he told you," Modred said, putting his pistol away in its shoulder holster. "I was going to tell you myself, anyway."
"You're really King Arthur's son?"
"His bastard, to be more precise," said Modred dryly. "My father and I never enjoyed the best of relationships."
"From what I've read, that's one hell of an understatement," Loomis replied. "How much of that story was true?"
"You mean Mallory's legend? Most of it was reasonably accurate, albeit colored by a romantic's perception. The true story of Camelot is a rather tawdry affair that I won't bore you with. Suffice it to say that my father was presented in a highly flattering light. His so-called ideals and nobility left something to be desired."
"I find it hard to believe you're over two thousand years old," said Loomis. "You don't look a day over forty."
"The rate at which I age is an infinitesimal fraction of the normal human life cycle," Modred said. "Being a half-breed, I am not, in the strict sense of the word, immortal. But our necromancer is."
"You call them the Dark Ones?"
"That is what the Council of the White called them," Modred replied. "The Old Ones who refused to give up the practice of necromancy for white magic. How much of the story did Paul tell you?"
"He gave me an abbreviated version," Loomis said. "I know about the Mage War and how the Dark Ones were imprisoned in the pit. And I know about the runestones and how the Dark Ones escaped. They're the 'cult' you were talking about, aren't they?"
"Yes. They and the human acolytes who follow them," said Modred. "Though rarely of their own free will."
"It's an incredible story," Loomis said, "but it explains a lot. And I can see why you've tried to keep it under wraps." He took a deep breath. "Jesus. And I was worried about the necromancy angle getting out. Compared to this, that's nothing."
"And you had no difficulty believing it all?" asked Modred, raising his eyebrows.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Loomis replied. "But it resolves a lot of unanswered questions. About magic, about Merlin, about why some people can learn thaumaturgy and others can't, about our legends . . . and about why you got the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard to back up your story. He's the only one over there who knows, isn't he?"
Modred nodded. "What I told you about the murders in Whitechapel was true. Michael Blood is one of the few people who knows what really happened."
"I figured. Then there's Paul. We haven't known each other long, but we've spent a lot of time together under not very pleasant circumstances. In a situation like that, you can get to know somebody pretty well and I knew he was telling me the truth. At least, I knew that he believed it. And I don't think it's very easy to fool somebody who can read minds."
Modred decided not to tell him that Paul couldn't read his mind. He wondered what Paul had left out and a moment later he got his answer.
"Paul said that there were three runestones," Loomis said. "Only if you've got one, who's got the other two?"
So he hadn't told him about Kira. He knew Loomis had met her, but he had her connected with Paul. And, more importantly, Paul hadn't told him about Wyrdrune. Which meant he also probably hadn't told him about Billy, Merlin, and Gorlois.
"That's not important right now," Modred said. "The important thing is that you now know what we're up against. If you'd persisted in interrogating suspects on your own, and if you'd encountered the Dark One, you wouldn't have stood a chance. You would both have been killed. Or, worse still, turned into acolytes. Perhaps now you'll understand why I had to steal that car. I needed to divert your attention to me immediately. It was for your own good."
"Yeah, I can see that, I guess. I was going to take you in. Or at least try to. Now, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I don't mind telling you, I'm scared. A necromancer's bad enough, but one that isn't even human . . ."
"The Dark Ones can be killed," said Modred, "but it isn't easy, as you might suspect. If you were lucky enough to get off a lethal shot, it might do the trick, but you'd have to catch the Dark One totally off guard. You can forget any notion of placing the killer under arrest. It would be impossible under any normal circumstances."
"But it is possible?"
"You don't cage a rabid dog, Loomis. You kill it. The Dark Ones are predators. Allowing them to live would be too great a threat to the human race. We cannot act like police officers in this matter. We must act as hunters. Because if we don't, we will be the hunted."
Loomis looked up at the sky. It was getting lighter. "It's almost dawn," he said. "We've got only two days left."
"I'm painfully aware of that," said Modred. "Which is why I advise you to go home and get some sleep. You look exhausted and you'll need all your strength, believe me."
"Sleep?" said Loomis with a snort. "You've gotta be kidding. How the hell am I supposed to sleep knowing what's going down? Besides, that field agent should be checking in with me and Paul this morning."
"I know," said Modred. "And I'm going to ask you to keep what you now know to yourself. At least until I can ascertain whether or not this agent can be trusted with this knowledge."
"But you trusted me. Or at least, Paul did. And I'm just a tired old street cop, not a Bureau adept."
"Don't underrate yourself, Joe. You're a damn good cop and you know it. And as a cop, you'll know that in highly sensitive investigations, certain details must be restricted to the investigating officers alone. Otherwise, if they become general knowledge throughout the department, leaks are unavoidable. The Bureau is no different. Aside from which, if it should become necessary, I could easily make you forget what you've learned tonight."
Loomis pursed his lips and nodded. "I almost wish you would," he said. "But I'm going to feel real funny holding back information from the Bureau."
"Perhaps it won't be necessary," Modred said, "but I'd rather you let me and Paul decide that."
"Suppose you decide you can't trust the agent with this. How the hell are we supposed to do what we have to do with that B.O.T. agent looking over our shoulders—hell, running the whole investigation—and not knowing what it's really all about?"
"So far as the Bureau knows, they're up against human adepts who have gone bad," said Modred. "What I've told you about the so-called cult is what the Bureau believes. Not knowing anything about the existence of the Dark Ones, it's the only thing they can believe. And we have certain trusted contacts in the Bureau who help that belief along. From the killings that have taken place in London, Los Angeles, Paris, Tokyo, and now here, they've concluded that there is an international organization of criminal adepts, much like the powerful organized crime families of the pre-Collapse days. And in a sense, they're not far wrong. The only difference is the Dark Ones aren't human and, fortunately for us, the
y are not organized."
"Jesus, if they were . . ." said Loomis.
"If they were, we'd be in very serious trouble," Modred said. "However, their own ambition works against them. If they had gone along with the other Old Ones who were led by the Council, the Mage War never would have taken place, only their lust for power was too strong. That is the most dangerously seductive element of necromancy. Once an adept has tasted that sort of power, it becomes overwhelmingly addictive and the desire for control, and need to manipulate others, tends to override everything else.
"For thousands of years," he continued, "they were imprisoned together in the pit, but they were torpid, in a magically induced trance. As a result, they never developed the sort of bond that comes with adversity. Luckily for us. Once they escaped, they fled to different parts of the world. Instead of uniting their powers, each of them thought only of themselves, of their own individual survival. So they sought to hide and build up their powers, each of them hoping that the runestones would find the others first and by the time the confrontation came around to them, they would be strong enough to prevail. And if it were not for the runestones, they would soon have been fighting among themselves, competing for power and control. Greed is the chief weakness of the necromancer. He's like a drug addict. With each fresh infusion of stolen life energy, he only wants more."
"And you want me to go home and try to get some sleep?" said Loomis. "Even if I could sleep, knowing something like this is out there, I'd only have nightmares."
"Nevertheless, you must try to get some rest, Joe. Chances are the Dark One won't strike during the daylight hours. He needs to rest, too. He absorbs the life energy of his victims, but he also expends a tremendous amount of it in the powerful spells he casts. Controlling a demonic entity is incredibly demanding and exhausting. He needs time to recuperate. What's more, the Dark Ones have a basic understanding of human psychology. They understand that the night holds special terrors. It is more psychologically effective for them to strike at night and easier, too, because there are fewer people on the streets. And what the Dark One is seeking to create is an atmosphere of fear. That's one reason for the use of the demonic entity. It's what gave birth to human myths of werewolves and other supernatural beings. The life force is particularly vibrant in the presence of terror. To the necromancer, it's like a heady wine that has reached its full maturity. He seeks to induce terror in his victims, to produce the galvanizing effects of adrenaline release and trigger the full strength of the life force. At night is when our killer will strike. And we must take every advantage of what time we have to rest and marshal our own energies."
