by Carl Sargent
"I will take you there. If they have my blood in their machines, and they have used it to try to kill me, then I shall destroy them," the Zulu said, the calmness of his voice making the words even more chilling.
"Ah," the troll said.
"Tom!" Serrin shouted in relief. "Hey, chummer, is it ever good to see you!" He tried his best to embrace the troll, but his arms couldn't quite make it around the huge torso. "Are you all right?"
"We've spoken," Tom said, shrugging off his friend's concern. He didn't have words to waste reassuring the elf that he was healed. It should have been obvious. "Things are going to get complicated." Keeping it brief and to the point, he repeated what he'd learned from Shakala.
"Well, if the information is on a private database, I
wouldn't have got it," Michael said. "I checked governmental sources and medical company databases, and the latter only when I had to. "Depends what kind of hospital, too. If it was a charity, for instance, I wouldn't have checked into it. The same if it's been taken over by a corporation." Something nagged at Michael, something lurking at the back of his mind, refusing to reveal itself. Tom's story certainly explained why information on the Zulu hadn't turned up in his searches. Something else, he thought. Come on, you deckhead, there's something else, what is it amp;
"The problem is that he intends to use his warriors to destroy the place," Tom said, explaining Shakala's logic.
"But there's no point. The same information could have been duplicated elsewhere. His blood-group information could be in half a dozen places around the world by now. It's not going to do him any good to destroy this place. Hell, you can't use blood group data for ritual magic anyway, can you? Don't you need the blood itself?" Michael fretted.
"You're right. Everything you say is rationally true," Tom said with a rueful smile. "But you try telling him that."
"Did he get any ID on the people who came after him? How did the attempted kidnapping even get public? There aren't any media hacks out here. And what
"Hey, slow down, chummer," the troll protested. "The hit team came in a chopper, apparently. He lost two of his people, but his warriors didn't draw any blood so Shakala couldn't use ritual sorcery to track them. He got hit with a trank shot, but enough of his people turned up fast enough to keep the kidnappers from carrying him off. Shakala did get a look at one of them, though. A white man. Guess what? He had a scar on the left side of his chin. Shakala says there was something, something 'wrong' about the guy's aura. He can't be precise because the bullets were flying too fast and heavy for really precise astral perceptions right then."
"So it's the same man, the same outfit," Serrin mused. The description proves it. If you didn't tell him what I saw, that is."
"Come on, I'm not that dumb," the troll protested. "No, he said it right out."
"How did he do that stuff when you grabbed him?" Michael asked. "One minute you had him, the next he's in the trees above you. You ought to learn that trick, Serrin."
"I wish," the elf said fervently. "You said he was a mage. But he looks like a shaman. I see both. Maybe the usual classifications don't apply out here."
"Well, anyway," Tom said, "the reason the incident made the news was because a government minister was in the area at the time. Photo opportunities in the game reserve, tourist stuff. When they heard gunfire, the snoops and photographers with the group lit out after a real story. Just a lucky break."
"Are they going to kill me?" Kristen blurted out at last. She was terrified by the threatening body of Zulu men.
"No, I don't think so," the troll chuckled. "Shakala's happy enough. Seems he took a dislike to the Xhosa shamans putting some kind of mark on me. All that ritual last night was him replacing it with his own."
"Some ritual," Serrin protested.
"Yeah, well. I think I learned something from it," the troll mused.
"I suppose it's a bit like lemurs," Michael said a little uncertainly.
Serrin looked completely dumbfounded by this remark, "Lemurs?"
"Well they scent mark. If it's their territory, they piss on it to say it's theirs. If they come across some intruder, they mask his scent with their own. Sort of." Michael was finally succumbing to the effects of sleeplessness after a restless night, and realized he'd managed to talk himself into trouble.
"So you take me for a tree to be pissed on?" Tom said, faking anger. He was actually amused, realizing that for once the Englishman had been caught off-guard. The troll intended to make the most of the opportunity.
"Well, no, I mean, it's the concept of the thing," Michael said lamely.
"You dumb fragger," Tom growled, grabbing the Englishman by his jacket and hauling him a foot off the ground. "You don't know drek."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean " Michael began.
"Lemurs don't live in Africa. They're South American. I know; saw it on the trid once. If you're going to get me pissed on by something, then you should make damn sure it belongs out here, you dumb Englishman," Tom laughed, setting Michael back down on the ground.
Serrin was about to join in the laughter when he saw reinforcements beginning to arrive. The spears had looked nasty enough, but sixty of these Zulus armed with SMGs and assault cannon opened up whole new vistas of mayhem.
"I just hope there's still some kind of evidence left by the time these boys are done with it," he said hopefully.
20
After a two-hour trek through the midday sun, their nerves were seriously on edge. They gripped their guns in slippery hands, while the sweat poured off the rest of their bodies. For Kristen, the most important thing was whether she'd be able to keep the weapon when all this was over. Having a gun would be a real edge back home. Getting enough money to eat was always a problem; only the boss gangs were able to afford guns.
"Smoke, look," Michael said, pointing ahead, above the treeline. "That's where we're headed to."
A cry of frustration went up from the scouts slithering through the trees and bush cover. Everyone broke into a run to catch up with them.
The buildings were by now mostly smoking ruins. There was no sign of life, and a pall of thin smoke hung over the whole scene. From the look of things, the torching must have occurred at least a day ago.
"We're a little late," Michael said drily. "I doubt we'll find anything here. But it's quite a coincidence, don't you think? The owners must have known someone might come calling."
"But who are they?" Serrin wondered.
"I'll find out when we get back to New Hlobane," Michael said determinedly.
Shakala strode up before them, anger on his face. "You come, and then this place is burned down. Is that just a coincidence?"
"I hardly think so," Michael said. "But do you not think, Prince, that if someone went to all this trouble to destroy the place it must be because it was important? Because they feared what you might find?" he used the title without mockery. The elf seemed placated, or at least to be thinking it over.
A sudden wailing cry rose up from somewhere ahead in the smoke haze. Two of Shakala's men came running up to him, one whispering in his ear with cupped hands to prevent the visitors hearing. Shakala uttered one word and gestured for them to follow.
"What did he say?" Serrin asked Kristen, whose reaction of surprise indicated that she must have gotten the gist of things.
"He said 'dead man.' No, wait, not dead… How would you say it amp;?" She searched for the word, found it. "Zombies."
The Zulus dragged the two figures they had found before Shakala. They were Zulu men, thin as rakes, clad in rags, and the reactions of the scouts said they weren't local people. The men had visible sores on their bodies, and the leg of one showed a ghastly patch of gangrene.
"That's no zombie," Michael whispered to Serrin. "Not any kind I've ever heard of."
"So, now you're an expert on zombies?". "No, but " Michael's reply was cut short by Shakala's taking the head of one of the men in his hands and shaking it violently. The wretch offered no resistance, and
except for the grimace on his face, showed no reaction at all. Shakala released him, uncertain.
"Do you know anything of this?" he demanded of Tom. "He is not possessed by any spirit." The troll shook his head.
"He has no soul," the elf stated. "But the body it is alive. He is not undead. He has a disease and will perish."
The pathetic man fell to his knees and sobbed. "Master, master, tell me what to do. I do not know what to do. I have not been told." It would have been pure bathos but for the ghastliness of the man's appearance. Flies buzzed hungrily around the rotting flesh of his leg.
"Your Prince commands you to tell him what you have been doing," Shakala said, without even the slightest trace of pity.
"Gathering the flowers, as I was told."
"Where do you come from? Where do you live?"
"But here," the man said, plainly confused. "I live here."
"Where did you live before?" the shaman demanded. The man fell mute. Either he didn't understand the question or he simply couldn't give an answer. He fell to sobbing again.
Serrin turned away from the sight. "It must be some kind of drug," he mumbled to Michael. "Something from the plants. Alkaloids or something. I don't know much about that kind of thing."
"Neither do I. But have you noticed how defoliant's been sprayed everywhere?"
Serrin turned back, looking at the red soil all around. There were no telltale stains, but now that Michael mentioned it, he could see that the grass around the spot stopped at a definite line. Someone had sprayed the area precisely and exactly.
"Why? Because of us? They're scared of us? Michael, if I know how to do one thing well, it's watch my back once I've been warned. My watcher spirits would have told me if we were being followed. And Shakala would have known it, too. That elf's primed with power. He'd have known if anyone was tracking us here."
"Maybe they took their cue simply from us coming to the Zulu Nation," Michael reasoned. "They needn't have followed us all the way here. Besides, are you so sure your own watchers are that good?"
"By all the spirits," Serrin suddenly cried out, abruptly breaking the thread of their talk. "Are we idiots?"
Michael looked askance at him, waiting to hear the reasoning behind the outburst.
"You said a nosferatu? Don't creatures like that have pawns they control? Zombies, more or less? Some of them, at least."
"So, they have pawns. Like these men. Then why does he need a place like this, meddling with drugs maybe, to make them if he can create them anyway? What does he even need them for, out here?" Michael asked.
"Slot me if I know," Serrin said miserably.
Michael was about to speak, but froze at the shrill scream coming from one of the men they'd found. He was reacting to Shakala's probing of his mind, or what was left of it, by magic.
"I don't think he's going to get anywhere with that," Michael said. "We can pick through the ruins if you want, but I'll bet you a thousand nuyen to a button spider's rear end that we won't find anything.
"But now we know more. Whoever came for Shakala also came for you. They must have had the information on his blood group, and they must have had access to this place probably even owned it for it to have been torched like this. I'm going to find out who did own it. And you've always got your lady reporter friend back in New York to asic about things that suck blood in the night." Suddenly, the Englishman's face broke into a half-crazy grin and he snapped his fingers in triumph.
"And I just realized what's been bothering me ever since we got here. One of the names on the list was from the Squeeze, back in London. There's no official data on people there, either. But there's corporate data. And there's only one corp that goes into the Squeeze for its workers.
"Now all I have to do is find out who's got a stake in this place and has access to the database of British Industrial's workers. It's a double verification. We can pin it down exactly. I can get some help from Geraint amp; " His voice trailed off. "Oh, drek," he concluded.
"The bugger's a junior director of the company these days," he said wretchedly. He already guessed who must be handling the ownership rights, and he also knew that trying to deck into their system would be more or less equivalent to personally signing his own death warrant.
Magellan had made it to New Hlobane well before Serrin and the others went sifting through the ruins at Babanango, but it took time for him to catch up with their trail. Finally, enough money spread around found them. He also learned that the Englishman's cyberdeck was still stashed at the Imperial. He'd surely come back for it, which meant Magellan had no need to traipse into the veldt after them. But once he learned where they were headed, he was sure they'd find the plant. What he didn't know was that Luther had ordered its destruction before they ever got there.
The elf almost panicked. They'd find the evidence; the plants, the drugs, the zombies. The research files. It was unthinkable. Hoping against hope that none of it had yet 'lappened, he called the number from his own hotel room. "That number has been disconnected," the robotic voice informed him. Magellan looked askance at the telecom screen and sat back, staring at it dumbly for a moment. He knew the number wasn't in any directory. Jenna had her own ways of finding it, but disconnected? He tried the operator and told her, in the smoothest voice he could muster, that it was an emergency and he had to get through to the number.
"I'm sorry, sir, but the number has been disconnected," the voice came back with a firm insistence. Magellan slammed his fist on the table and cursed loudly. Then he called up the trid news pages, but found nothing about the Babanango facility there.
Had Luther already wrapped things up there? he wondered. Surely that wasn't possible. Unless, unless amp; unless he's got everything he needs.
Magellan felt shock ripple through him. Jenna hadn't believed Luther to be that close. Neither had he.
Was there anything left, he fretted, any kind of evidence? Sutherland will trace Luther. He's good enough. He'll find out who owned the place. Luther's got to be stopped.
He'd been thinking of calling Jenna until he discovered that Luther had already abandoned the research facility.
Now he had other calls to make, a trap to spring.
Niall had slept almost twenty-four hours straight, sweating feverishly, moaning as he lay tossing and turning. He woke with dark circles under his eyes, unrested by his tormented sleep. His mage's senses showed him his ally spirit, unmanifested to mundane eyes, at the entrance to the cave.
"Where am I? How long have I been here?" he groaned.
"A day and a night," Mathanas told him. "You are safe enough here. We have not been followed. No more than usual, at least. We are well concealed. You need not fear."
"What do the watchers say?" Niall asked him. They were his own summonings, but the spirit's powers concealed them even as it was able to see what they saw, learn what they knew.
"They are still in Africa. I sensed a strong shamanic presence with them. The watchers did not follow," the spirit said. "It was too dangerous. They would have been discovered. The group was at Liitair's research plant, but they have left now. The place has been destroyed. Not even the aura remains."
"Lutair would not have done that because of them," the elf mused. "He doesn't know about them. I'm sure of it." Mathanas said nothing.
"He must be very close now," Niall went on. "He must have destroyed the place because he no longer has need of it. All the research has been done. It may be that we have no more than a few days left. Less, perhaps. We must be gone."
The words were much more than they seemed. Niall was referring to abandoning his homeland, everything he loved about the magic and wonder of Tir na n6g, the loss of everything he still had. Mathanas felt the mortal's hurt keenly.
"Not yet. We must be sure that none can follow," he said.
"But we don't have time," Niall protested. He knew Mathanas would want him to spend vital hours on ritual magic, masking himself through a web of deceit and confusion to mislead anyone in p
ursuit.
"It must be done. You did not venture the storm to take power against Lutair alone," the spirit said soothingly. "That is within the cauldron. What lies around it needs strengthening also."
"Mathanas, will you promise me something?" Niall asked, his voice placatory, allowing the spirit to see his acquiescence. Mathanas waited to hear him out.
"If, when we find him, if he is to take me to the living death he plans, will you kill me first?"
"I am unable," Mathanas replied slowly.
The elf shrugged. He had not really expected any other reply.
"Well, I suppose we'd better get on with it," he said miserably. "Daingit, I need something to eat." The ridiculousness of it struck him, almost making him laugh. "Here we are, with a focus most Awakened on the planet would kill for, and I can't create a bowl of bread and milk to sustain me. That is truly absurd."
The spirit smiled. "I'll see what I can do."
They made it into Babanango in the late afternoon. Shakala said little to any of them, save to Tom. The shamans were still wary of each other, and when they stood together they were like bucks agreeing not to lock antlers, Tom deferring to the elf's ownership of the terrain and Shakala accepting the troll's presence. But a tension still crackled between them, and Serrin wasn't sorry when Shakala left them, assigning a few of his warriors to escort them to the outskirts of town.
By the time they found a cab to take them to the airport, he was feeling fairly drained. Michael had tagged the New Hlobane flight and was busily paying whatever it would take to get them on it. The decker was past fatigue, experiencing a second wind that had him eager to get back to his Fuchi so he could go decking for what they needed. Serrin grabbed a bottle of fruit juice and ran through the gate just in time to board the plane, Kristen close on his heels.
"That was a damn lucky stunt," Michael commented. "If we hadn't made this flight, it would have meant staying overnight. That, or ride all night by bus. We need to get moving on this one, term."
Serrin merely grunted agreement. He was too busy preparing himself for another ordeal aboard another of the flying rustbuckets that constituted local air transport.
