"Not a thing."
"Did you cross-reference to Kristen Lynx?"
"Yes, I did. No connection indicated. Poor Kristen. Was Worthly her real name?"
"Could the information have been where you couldn’t access it?
"No."
Cross nodded, then looked up, locking his gaze with the ork’s. "Then why the grief?"
"When you contacted me, you expected to get something out of my search. You didn’t ask me to see if there was data, you asked me to pull what was there. You expected something to be there and there wasn’t."
Cross didn't reply, but instead looked off toward the band. "And Brandon, I don’t like what that means."
* * *
The message light was blinking on his terminal when he got back to his doss hours later. There’d been a thin fog hanging over Seattle when he’d left Martin at the bar and decided to wander. He finally stopped and bussed for home when he’d walked so much his legs began to throb. Adaptation to Seattle's hills wasn't something that came with one lifetime.
There were two messages waiting: one was text-only, with an attached file, and the other full audio-visual. The text-only was tagged as coming from Barbara Tyler. He accessed that one first.
> SEAMAIL™ <<<<<<<
GRV9828-1092-AB
From: Mrs. Barbara Tyler (BTYLER-0098342)
To: Mr. Brandon Cross 3206 (82-0071/CROSSB)
— MESSAGE BEGINS—
Mr. Cross:
Per your request, here are the two photos. One of the servants scanned them for transfer, so I hope they are acceptable. Both are in the same file attached to this letter.
The first is the most recent photo I have of my daughter. It is about one year old. I hope it’s what you need. I should point out that her hair is probably blond now, not the brunette in the picture.
The second is the Marriane Hills graduating class photo. I still don’t know why this is significant, but since you insisted.
Please contact me with any results you have obtained thus far.
Cordially,
Barbara Tyler
—MESSAGE ENDS—
By the time he was done reading the letter, his telecom had automatically downloaded the picture files and converted for his graphics system.
Ellen Tyler-Rand was an attractive woman, but in the picture showed none of the attitude her mother displayed. He guessed that the image had been grabbed at some outdoor social event. The young woman had a round face and full lips, but smaller eyes than Hollywood would have demanded of her. She was laughing, her face a quarter-turn from full-on and one hand was holding a white-trimmed hat onto her head. As the letter suggested, she was brunette. Cross selected a sample of the tones from her hair and instructed the system to adjust them to a typical blond.
As it did, he called up the second image. Mrs. Tyler’s servant, whoever he was, had done a good job converting the image. The copy was nearly as crisp as the original.
Activating the magnifying tool, he began to inspect the faces of the girls in the photo. But because it was only a copy, the detail disintegrated quickly under his scrutiny. He selected a few faces and set the system to enhancing the detail. He guessed it would take hours.
Ellen Tyler-Rand’s image was done and he routed it out to the printer at a convenient size for carrying. That done, he routed the second message to the flat’s trideo projection system. Having read the sender note on the message, he dreaded watching it.
The screen quickly flashed the UCAS Data Systems logo and their current slogan "Trideo-Mail™. Because sound is only half the picture." That image was quickly replaced by a text screen informing him that the message had been left two hours ago. The send-point was, as he'd expected, Matchsticks.
The red channel on the image itself was off a few pixels, further confirming the point of origin. The sender was turning back toward the camera as the image resolved itself. She blinked once, looked him right in the eyes and spoke.
"Brandon, it’s me, which is obviously a stupid thing to say since you can see that it’s me. Anyway, I'm going to have my say, whether you listen or not. Go ahead, turn me off if you want. I’m going to blather on either way."
Janey Zane’d chopped her dark blond hair short since he'd last seen her. The black motorcycle jacket was the same as ever, but he couldn’t tell what, if anything, she was wearing under it. Her left hand toyed absently with the zipper, playing with it near her collar. She still rapped at light-speed but there was a stillness in her body that was wrong. He almost hit the Stop button.
"Okay, fine," she continued. "Your attitude has got me ragged, Brandon. You think we all haven't punched a few walls over what happened? You and me. we've got about the same amount of flesh left. You think it doesn't hurt me, too?"
She stared at him. Right then it didn't matter that her eyes weren't real.
"Sure you feel responsible. I wouldn’t be hanging anywhere near you if you didn’t feel something. It was your call on the scene, Brandon. Deaver passed it to you and we all slotted off. Brandon was in the car, it was his action to call, he said.
"The street was hot, that was obvious from go. There was no way we were going to pull Steubans out. Your call. Deaver and me, we assumed you saw on out-slot for yourself, so we hung."
Janey’s gaze drifted away for a moment.
"Don’t know what Kristen thought. Maybe running was getting to her. You saw it, we all did. Deaver thinks she might have gone back to BTLs in the last year. She was a chiphead. Did you know that? Rich parents, bad home, she even went to one of those California prep schools. Can you believe it? She wouldn’t tell me much more, but I wrestled that much out of her. Spirits, what a waste."
She shook her head and looked back at him. Worthly, he thought. Her real name was Worthly and no one knew. Not even Janey.
"She went in herself, Brandon. Herself. Her decision. Her call. Her job. Her life. Drek, we don’t even know for sure that she was going in after you, chummer. She may have been tighter with Gail Steubens than she’d said. Kristen had set the run up after all, remember?"
Janey looked down and ran one hand through her hair, tousling it even further. She looked up.
"At least Lynx went out screaming and took most of those bastards with her. You, you're going out with a pitiful wimper. I’ve hooked up with some new people. Call me if you ever decide to live again."
She reached out and stabbed the Disconnect button, but in the last instant before the screen crashed to black Brandon thought he saw a glistening in her eyes that matched his own.
A few hours later he placed some calls, and the next morning it came together. His friends were quiet while he explained what had been going on and what he had learned. Together, they went to work.
Two days later they’d learned enough of Candace Vignell’s schedule that Cross was confident enough to make a move. The seven women were rarely together, but when they were, they chose times when the personal and security traffic through Vignell’s building was too dense for anyone to try anything against them. Cross picked a time when at least four of them would be together and when there would be the least interference, until he wanted it.
His friends insisted on backing him, and he told them no again.
This time, any deaths would not be on his head.
* * *
The Omnipark Condoplex boasted a large, sixty-meter-tall atrium whose concept and execution were most interesting. Among the multistory hanging banners and scalloped terraces, a flock of gull-shaped gliders coasted the natural thermals the space produced. Assisted by a featherweight computer, the gulls banked and dove high above, oblivious to the events below them.
When the four women came off the elevator, he was there waiting for them. The group paused a moment, then approached to within a few steps from him. He knew two of them from photos and one of them personally.
Candace Vignell smiled. "Mr. Cross. I’d been wondering when you'd finally get around to dropping by." As she spoke, she removed her sunglasses, rev
ealing eyes of the sharpest blue Cross had ever seen. "Rachel warned us of your resourcelulness."
"Really?" Cross turned slightly toward Morelle, who stared back at him. "Then I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d know me that well, considering you are only, what, eight months old?"
Morelle blanched and the other two shifted nervously, but Vignell laughed, rocking her head back slightly. "Well, it would seem that we’ll have to be more careful in the future. Your clues?"
He turned back to her and shrugged. "Mostly the behavior changes and a warning from a shaman friend of mine who understands these things." His eyes locked into hers. "I’ve also done some exterminating in my time."
Vignell smiled lightly and ran the ear-rest of her sunglasses along her lower lip. "Yes, I suspect you have."
"We should talk about this somewhere else," said Morelle, stepping forward. Vignell glanced back at her.
"I would agree with you," she said, "except I doubt Mr. Cross would like that. Much more public here. Besides, Rachel, you’ve told me just how efficient Knight Errant Security is. I don’t think they would allow anyone to get hurt in one of their buildings. Do you?"
"Depends on who’s doing the hurting," said Cross. His right arm flashed into motion as he quickly drew his Predator and pointed its thick barrel at the ground. The women moved instantly, and near blindingly, surrounding him within a few heartbeats. He kept his eyes on Vignell, who had ceased smiling.
"That was a very foolish action, Mr. Cross. You’ve undoubtedly alerted security."
"Undoubtedly."
"Why?" asked Morelle, now behind him.
He spoke without turning. "You tell me; you’ve got the command position these days, Captain."
"The bodyguards."
Vignell looked over at Morelle. "Explain."
"I told you, I have two bodyguards. New company policy. While I was upstairs with the group, I left them down here. More than likely they’ve seen what’s happening."
"And?"
"And," said Cross, "they don't quite know what to make of it. Ms. Morelle is their number one priority, but I’m not threatening her. She’s also an officer, so they've probably called in for orders."
Vignell’s eyes narrowed as she regarded him. "You are, unfortunately, a very typical male, Mr. Cross. You couch an irrational action in the most logical of terms, thinking it will somehow justify the action. It still makes little sense."
Cross shrugged again. "Your loss."
"Rachel," said Vignell, "your assessment. "
"Since my safety has priority, procedure dictates that my two guards take command of the Knight Errant troopers who work the building. They’ve undoubtedly moved into position, armed with weapons from the building’s armory and right now have Bra—Mr. Cross—lined up in their sights."
"Will they shoot?"
"Not until he directly threatens one of us."
"Which won’t be until he raises the gun away from the floor."
"Exactly. Then it will be a race between his arm and the sniper’s bullet."
Vignell shook her head. "Mr. Cross, this makes less and less sense. Perhaps you are suicidal. Do you really think that murdering me will make a difference?"
"Murder isn’t the proper word, Ms. Vignell," he said. "You can only murder something that was alive to begin with."
Her head tilted "And I am not alive?"
"No, you are not. You are a thing, an insect spirit inhabiting a body that was once alive. People are murdered. Bugs are killed."
"I think your past experiences have confused you," said Vignell, smiling.
"Oh? How is that?"
"We do not steal bodies, like some others of our brethren. Our hosts welcome us, willingly. How do you think we are able to maintain these forms and not become deformed? I believe you have seen some of the half-forms the others produce?"
"Your attitude toward your hosts seems remarkably self-serving, considering how alien they must feel you to be. I can’t imagine you wanting to be in anything but my true form."
"They accept us, Mr. Cross," she told him. "Those who choose to help us give us their bodies willingly. While in this world we honor their forms."
"Why want to enter this world at all?" Cross asked.
"We have our reasons, and though you may find it hard to believe, it is to our mutual benefit. Your race and ours. We Mantids. using your word, are not your enemy."
"You’re right, I do find it hard to believe."
"Mr. Cross, I’ve told you that those of your kind willingly share their bodies with us. They do so because we reveal to them our greater vision for this planet. We are in a unique position to understand the forces that shape this world. You and your kind are infants." Vignell casually adjusted the cuffs of her black dress suit.
"Well, if the Brotherhood represents adulthood. I’m not sure I want to grow up."
"The Brotherhood?" She laughed. "I told you, Mr. Cross, your past experiences have clouded your judgement. We are not of the Brotherhood."
"Oh, sorry, the Sisterhood, right?"
"By your understanding we are devourers, hunters The so-called Brotherhood wishes our demise as much as it does yours."
"To lower this one level and place it in your base terms," interrupted Morelle, "we destroy vermin. Bugs, if you will."
"And consume the males of your species after mating. Now there’s a world view I could throw my heart into."
"I suppose I could make similar comments about apes, but I won’t. The comparisons are equally irrelevant. We are among the eldest of beings, Mr. Cross. Those who welcome us share in that greatness. Together we become an even greater being."
"So you’re claiming that even after you’ve possessed a human body, the mind that inhabited it coexists with your own?" Cross demanded, his gaze flickering briefly over the two in front of him, Vignell and the woman he did not know.
"That’s correct. Nothing is lost and everything is gained," Vignell replied.
"They why hasn’t Morelle drawn her gun? She obviously has the drop on me."
Vignell looked over at Morelle, who clumsily reached under her business jacket and pulled her light pistol free.
"See, that’s what everyone who’s watching and listening to this conversation is going to want to know. Why is Captain Morelle hosing up?"
Vignell's gaze snapped back to Cross. "What do you mean, watching and listening?"
"Well, we’ve already determined that there are guards watching us," he said as casually as he could. "Don’t you think they’ve pulled out the long-range microphones by now? You four have also been paying so much attention to me that you haven’t noticed what else has been going on.
"Morelle is a Knight Errant officer," Cross continued, "and I used to be. That’s enough to set off most of the local-level alarm bells. Have you seen any Knight Errant guards around here, anywhere?"
"No."
"I have" came a new voice from behind him. Probably Ellen Tyler Rand.
Vignell looked toward her.
"Above us, on one of the terraces," she said. "He’s astrally present only. Been there most of the time."
"Why didn’t you say something."
"I ... I didn’t think it was a problem. We are sufficiently masked. "
"Why, Mr. Cross? Why do this?" asked Vignell, looking back at him. "We have done nothing to you."
"On the contrary, you’ve done everything to me. You've destroyed two of my friends."
"Two?"
"You forget Kristen Lynx, or rather Worthly, as Morelle has so kindly informed me."
"I see. How confused you are. Kristen killed herself trying to rescue you. Is that the mark of the callous, inhuman creatures you paint us to be?"
"The thing that died in that car was not Kristen, and I suppose I should thank you for allowing me to find that out. I don’t know, and I don’t care, what its motives were."
"Lady," said Tyler-Rand again and Vignell looked at her, "there are now at least two other mages among the te
rraces. I also believe there are some other spirits nearby. Elementals, by their scent."
"Then it’s time," said Cross.
Vignell turned back toward him. Her face taut, she began to speak, but Cross cut her off. "Morelle’s involvement, and mine, have made this a Level Three response. The mages will witness my proof."
"Proof?"
"Whatever your magicks are make it hard to discover your true nature. It may even be impossible. I and some friends of mine discovered the only sure way."
"Brandon, don’t do—," said Morelle, still behind him. "Watching from astral space while you die." He raised the gun barrel away from the floor and the women screamed.
GRAVEROBBERS
by Elizabeth T. Danforth
The fat man rocked from foot to foot, and Will Grey felt a perceptible sway in the elevator’s slow upward motion.
"I don't wanna do this. I never wanted to do this, Will. It’s a bad thing, and I don't wanna do it, I really don’t. I keep telling you that, but you won’t listen to me. You never listen."
‘"I’m listening. Porky. You’re the one not listening. I keep telling you that you'll do line." With his gold-hazel eyes fixed firmly on the frayed rubber cushions between the service elevator’s double doors, Will forced his shoulders down, forced himself to relax. He avoided looking at the hugely fat man beside him, put off less by his inhuman bulk than the short, spiked mohawk and the rivers of sweat the man produced even when standing still. The fat man continued whimpering.
"I’m gonna get caught, and they'll hurt me. Graverobbing is Meg’s thing . . . you and Meg together. I don't even wanna do it, ’cause it’s creepy. Taking a dead man’s computer time off his own terminal . . . it’s creepy. Don’t you think it’s creepy?
"He's not using it. We have a use for it." Will shrugged, the nylon strap of the carry-all satchel pulling his fatigue-green workshirt awry at the collar. He adjusted the satchel of rollers and brushes, and kicked at the knee-high stack of paint-spattered dropcloths. "With Meg’s ’ware, it’ll be a snap, even for you. You jack in, adjust the accounts, and you’re done."
Porky sucked on his tiny red lips. "Meg Motley should be doing this. I’m not the decker she is. "I’ll hose this run." His voice rose to a whine. "I can’t do it!"
Into the Shadows Page 3
