Today, however, he had flown to a different destination: Tokyo.
He had a specific goal in mind, and an address scribbled on the screen of his computer. He walked for hours through the empty streets, using his computer’s sat-nav function to find the way. Earth’s satellites were still in operation, although the Fleet had gone.
Prior to the final panicked evacuation, the Human Republic authorities had carried out a planetary-scale campaign of power source denial. All over the world, solar panels and wind turbines lay in wreckage, broken turbines spun futilely in rivers, nuclear power plants were in cold shutdown, and generators leaked fuel into the ground. The lesson of the lost colonies had finally been learned. This orgy of destruction had come too late to stop the Ghost invasion. Fuel cells were the big culprits—there were billions of those scattered over Earth, and no way to run them all down in a hurry. But fuel cells couldn’t be recharged without a working grid, so the Ghosts had been drawing down a resource they could not replenish. They were the masters of a world swiftly hurtling back into the Bronze Age. Colm suspected this, too, had been part of the Magus’s plan. The Magus had wanted to restore Earth to an era when electricity was solely accessible to mages who knew how to fetch the lightning.
These grim thoughts brought him to an alley in the North Shinjuku district of Tokyo. The address he was looking for belonged to a small box of a house in a row of boxes, with fake brick walls. Grass grew in the middle of the street and kudzu climbed to the second-storey windows. This was what the Ghost victory looked like. Silence, weeds, and the sinister smell of rot.
Colm tried the door. It was not locked. “Hello?” he called out, for form’s sake, and started to climb the stairs, pistol in hand.
“Get out!” yelled a panicky male voice. A silhouette appeared at the head of the stairs, pointing a rifle at Colm.
Colm threw himself backwards. “Calm down,” he yelled from around the corner of the hall. “I haven’t come to arrest you.”
Silence.
“Can I come up?”
“Are you from Lord Moro?” the voice demanded.
Lord Moro? Colm blinked. “No.”
Another voice—a woman’s—called out, “All right! Te o agete agatte kudasai!”
Colm did not speak Japanese, but he took a chance on ascending the stairs. In the cozy family room at the top, he found a pale, big-nosed, brown-haired Ghost, clad in un-Ghost-like jeans and a Tokyo Giants sweatshirt, and a young Japanese woman. When the Ghost soldiers came to themselves, they often turned out not to be warlike at all. It was the woman who held the rifle.
Colm realized that Tokyo was probably not as empty as it looked. He might have been watched all the way here. It had been the same in London and Glasgow. As the Magistocracy collapsed, the Ghost soldiers had deserted by the thousand. When they came to themselves they usually went into hiding, fearful that they might be enslaved.
The chaotic cessation of hostilities had come too late for many of Earth’s people, but not for all of them—witness this Ghost’s girlfriend.
“What you want?” she snapped.
Colm wanted to ask her where her family was and what she’d suffered before winding up here, but he just said, “Calm down.” He looked around the room. Nicholas Smythe’s books were spread out on the table. On the verandah outside the window, the familiar leaves of potato and rice plants sprouted from pots. Colm pointed at random at a framed photograph hanging on the wall. “I only want that.”
“Take,” the woman said, giving him the photograph. “This not our house,” she added, scrupulously.
“I reckon it is now,” Colm said. “I’ll leave you in peace.” Before he left, he turned to the Ghost. “You asked if I was from Lord Moro.”
“You said you weren’t.”
“No. I was just wondering—Gaethla Moro?”
“Yes.”
“Is he here?”
The Ghost fidgeted nervously. “Yes. His HQ is in Shibuya.”
“Shibuya?! The Shibuya Star Port?”
“That big dome. Don’t tell him you saw me. Please.”
“I won’t.” Colm left the house with the photograph in the pocket of his anorak, feeling a bit panicky. Gaethla Moro was at the Shibuya Star Port! That’s where Colm had left the Shihoka. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He started to run.
The Shibuya Star Port was not actually a spaceport. It was a huge shopping mall roofed by a geodesic dome, with parks radiating out in all directions where streets had run in an earlier, traffic-clogged era. These parks were just right for launch pads, so Colm had put the Shihoka down on one of them. He had been planning to raid the mall later for supplies. He felt a surge of relief when he saw the ship still standing on the charred weeds in the park. He decided to take off straight away. Fuck the supplies. He could stop somewhere else on the way home.
Then he hesitated.
It’s a thing I need to finish.
He stood by a slime-choked ornamental pond and scowled at the dome. The tiles were solar cells. The power would still be on somewhere inside.
He rationalized it to himself. Power might mean food in freezers. Drugs that needed refrigeration. Fully charged fuel cells.
Fuck it.
He nipped into the ship and exchanged his handgun for the combi he had borrowed from Axel. He also grabbed a duffel bag—Meg’s, the one she’d had ever since she was in the Fleet. Then he started toward the dome.
It was eerie walking through the mall, among the deserted shops. Thanks to the solar roof, the lights were still on.
“Gaethla?” he shouted, gripping the combi tightly. “Gaethla!”
No one answered him. Nothing moved except holo advertisements, shimmying along empty corridors. All he heard was muzak dripping from sensor-activated speakers as he walked.
Inside the shops, mannequins and display tables lay toppled, consumer gizmos scattered. The Ghosts had conducted their usual smash-and-grab looting operations. But they always missed the really useful stuff. Alert for any noise, Colm stuffed his duffel with snacks and sweets for the kids, toiletries, gloves, razors, disposable computers that hopefully came pre-loaded with books and music, and several sizes of hiking boots.
He hit the jackpot at a boutique pharmacy. The drugs safe was biometrically locked, keyed to the biodata of some long-dead employee. Colm aimed his combi at the lock and shot it.
The solar-powered electronics died. The safe swung open. Colm scooped the contents pell-mell into his duffel. Drugs for arthritis and asthma, antibiotics, painkillers—he’d be a hero back home. His gaze snagged on an industrial-size bottle of dolphin's tablets.
He had not taken tropo since he got back to Earth. Shamed by the overdose that had brought him here, he’d resolved for the hundredth time to get clean and stay clean.
But now his resolve wavered.
If he kept on nosing around the not-so-deserted cities of the world like this, he would run into trouble. If not today, sometime. It would be really handy if he could simply flit to safety.
Of course, he’d need to work on his conjuring before that would be a real option. His right hand was still stiff. He could pull a trigger now, but he’d never get back the full range of movement in those fingers, short of reconstructive surgery. Maybe Lloyd would be able to show him a one-handed trick he could do with his left hand …
As he hesitated, he heard distant voices and running footsteps. The Ghosts must’ve heard his shot. Talk about tempting fate.
Right, well, he’d known this might happen. He’d been asking for it. Now he was going to find out what he’d asked for.
He tipped the bottle of tropodolfin into his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the pharmacy. His calm posture belied his thudding pulse. He held the combi low at his side.
The running steps got nearer. Khaki figures darted out of the electronics emporium across the corridor. Colm put the combi down on the floor as raised his hands.
A PA speaker nearby suddenly boomed, “So it’s you. I thoug
ht you’d show up sooner or later.”
The voice was Gaethla Moro’s.
“Don’t shoot him, lads. Bring him to the club.”
Colm relaxed incrementally. There was still a connection between them, he thought.
CHAPTER 38
THE SOLDIERS HUSTLED COLM through the corridors of the mall, hissing at him to make him move faster. One of them had taken his duffel, another one his combi.
The mall’s central atrium rose three storeys high. Neon pulsed over the doorways of various theme restaurants and fast food outlets. The soldiers shoved Colm beneath a sign that said, in English, Aquarium. They passed through a sound-baffle door into hammering electronic music, the reek of cigarette smoke, and watery light coming from, yes, aquariums all around the walls of the room. Plush carpet sucked at Colm’s boots. Sofas clad in extravagant blue and green faux fur ringed a dance floor and an island bar.
It figured that Gaethla Moro had set up his headquarters in a nightclub.
“Wasn’t Edinburgh good enough for you?” Colm shouted over the music.
Gaethla sprawled at a table covered with empties, watching the strobe lights play on the empty dance floor. “The power ran out. But—” Colm couldn’t catch the rest. The music was too loud.
“I can’t hear you,” Colm yelled. There were soldiers all around the room, pointing their guns at him. A few frightened-looking Japanese girls were working behind the bar, serving the soldiers not presently menacing Colm.
The music went off. Into the silence, Gaethla said, “I’m learning to control this stuff. I’ll have the power back on soon.”
A chill shot through Colm’s gut. If Gaethla was not bluffing, that was bad news.
“Is this what you wanted?” he said.
“Sit down,” Gaethla said. “Have a drink. Have a smoke.”
Warily, Colm sat. Gaethla looked tired, and a bit bloated. There were bags under his eyes. He was wearing a business suit, open at the neck, that didn’t quite fit him. One-handed, he took a cigarette from a pack and turned it between his fingers.
“The Magus promised us a planet flowing with milk and honey,” he said. “A fat land, where food grows on shelves, every home has a lifeline, and power flows through the land itself.”
“But you wrecked it all by conquering it.”
“He said that mighty weapons would bend to our hands. We’d all be rich, and there’d be girls coming out of our ears.” Gaethla cast a glance at the girls behind the bar. Colm winced. Were the girls sex slaves? He had been afraid the Ghost conquest might take this ugly turn. But Gaethla looked regretful, rather than horny. Could he, too, have grown a conscience?
Heels rang on the dance floor.
Colm turned.
Diejen Lizp walked across the dance floor. Unlike Gaethla, she still wore her Ghost finery, including dangly earrings and abundant gold bracelets. They clanked as she folded her arms.
Colm found himself tongue-tied.
Diejen tossed her head and said to Gaethla, “Get those little whores out of here.” The girls behind the bar cowered and fled for the exit. The soldiers stayed put. “Where did you find him?”
“He walked in,” Gaethla said.
“I came looking for you,” Colm said to her.
Diejen’s face twitched. For a moment she looked very young.
“Ha! As I thought.” Gaethla drew a pistol from under the table. He must have been pointing it at Colm the whole time. He reversed it and held it out to Diejen. “Would you care to dead him yourself, my lady?” His tone oozed irony, but held a edge of barely controlled rage.
Diejen didn’t take the pistol. “I tell you plainly, Gaethla, as I have told you before: I have not been with him. I wouldn’t lower myself.”
Colm realized he’d really put his foot in it. Gaethla thought Diejen had cheated on him with Colm, and Colm’s stupid comment about having come to look for her had made it worse. All he could do now was back Diejen up. “She’s too young for me,” he said, shrugging.
“And yet you came armed into my fortress,” Gaethla said. “It’s a good thing you are no mage. Over there.” Colm hesitated. Gaethla jerked the pistol at the dance floor. “Go stand over there!”
Colm rose and backed across the dance floor.
“You wanted to revive the old ways, my lady,” Gaethla said. He took a swig of cognac and shoved his chair back from the table without getting up.
“Our old ways were better,” Diejen said. “Why did you let the Magus lead you into folly?”
Colm answered for Gaethla. “Girls, guns, and gold.” If he was going to die, he might as well say what he thought. “Everyone falls for it.” He laughed, really laughed at Gaethla’s bloated, scowling face. “Having the fiancée along kind of harshes the vibe, doesn’t it?”
Gaethla thumbed back the hammer of his pistol. “Our old ways were better. For instance, in the old days, a man would kill another man on the spot for messing with his betrothed.” He aimed at Colm’s heart and fired.
Colm knew for a heartstopping instant that he was dead. Then he realized he had heard the report. He couldn’t have heard anything if he was dead. Trembling, he followed the awed gazes of the soldiers around the room.
Gaethla’s bullet was flying like a bird, skipping slowly over the tables. It circled the room, returned to Gaethla, and fell into his outstretched hand.
“You see,” he said to Colm, “I am a real mage.”
Colm glimpsed naked admiration in Diejen’s eyes. In Ghost society, a real mage was a real man, and vice versa. And here Colm stood with the substance that would make him into a real mage lying in the duffel bag near Gaethla’s table.
“Where’s Dryjon?” He had to try twice before his voice worked.
“He’s gone to look for Scota’s grave,” Diejen said, grimacing.
“What?” Colm remembered how Dhjerga and the other Ghosts would swear by Scota’s grave. He had thought it was just an expression.
“Scota was the Magus’s true love,” Gaethla said. “Like Diejen is my true love.” His irony seared. “She’s buried somewhere near Edinburgh. I was supposed to look for her grave, but fuck that. What’s the use of a lot of dusty bones?”
“You have no respect for the old ways,” Diejen said, “none.”
“Oh, I do, I do. Shall I prove it to you, my lady?” Gaethla made a performance out of aiming his pistol at Colm again, squinting through the sights, his cigarette smouldering in the corner of his mouth.
Colm saw how this was going to go. Gaethla would toy with him for a while, to mess with Diejen’s head, but eventually he would fire the fatal shot. Every game of Russian roulette needs an ending.
He thought about the likely futility of making a break for the exit.
Then the strobing disco lights jerked into alignment, shining a rainbow spotlight on the dance floor. The light shimmered, and Dhjerga stood between Colm and Gaethla, coughing, gripping a combi.
“Dhjerga!” Diejen screamed—in joy, Colm thought for a second: then he realized she was afraid.
Dhjerga glanced around, orienting himself. He fixated on the stunned Gaethla. “Ha! Here’s luck! Got you at last,” he said, and in one swift motion he tucked his combi against his hip and pumped a burst into Gaethla’s torso, point blank.
The high-power rounds erupted from the back of Gaethla’s chair. Gaethla slid bonelessly to the floor.
“Now we’re even, fucker,” Dhjerga said, striding over to gloat down at Gaethla’s spasming form.
Blood gushed from Gaethla’s lips. He raised a trembling arm and pointed at Dhjerga. He spoke words that Colm could not catch, but even so, the grating gurgle of Gaethla’s voice drove a chill through his veins. Everyone in the room stood petrified. An expression of absolute horror came over Dhjerga’s face. He stumbled backwards, dropping his combi.
Gaethla fell back, dead.
Dhjerga crumpled. His head hit the floor with a sickening clunk.
Diejen rounded on Colm. “You have done this! It was y
our coming that broke everything! Now Gaethla has laid his death curse on my brother, and you, you are to blame!”
Tears spurted from her eyes. She wrapped the lights around herself and vanished.
With a pop, the overloaded strobes went out, leaving the club lit only by the aquariums.
There was a dead silence, broken after a moment by the shuffling of feet. In ones and twos, Gaethla’s soldiers were backing away from the two dead men and leaving the room. Very soon Colm was alone.
He laughed, shortly, to himself. In the silence of the deserted club, it was a crazy sound. He shuddered, ambled over to Gaethla’s table, and took a long drink straight from the bottle of cognac.
That gave him the strength to circle the pool of blood around Gaethla’s body and go to Dhjerga. They had fought together, fought with each other, and accomplished scarcely imaginable things. This was one hell of a way for it to end. He dropped to his knees and rolled Dhjerga onto his back, the way Dhjerga had once rolled over a dead copy in the snow of Kisperet, saying: There is too much dying among us. You got that right, my friend. Colm folded Dhjerga’s hands on his chest.
One of the hands twitched.
“Dhjerga?!”
Colm lowered his face to Dhjerga’s mouth. Warmth tickled his cheek.
He took Dhjerga’s pulse: faint, but steady. Dhjerga was alive!
But no matter how Colm shook him and spoke to him, he did not respond. He was in some kind of a coma. Colm dragged Dhjerga into a sitting position. It was like moving a corpse, but warm. He grabbed Dhjerga’s wrists and hoisted him onto his back. Dhjerga’s feet dragged on the floor. Colm seized his duffel, hung the strap around his neck, and struggled out of the club, bowed down. He left the weapons.
*
The flight back around the world took three hours on a sub-orbital ballistic trajectory, topping out at Mach 3. Colm had never been so glad to see the north Atlantic and the friendly green islands that dotted it, like little fish grouped around the big fish of Skye.
He usually landed offshore, respecting the prohibition established by the Skye islanders: no power sources on the island—and waited for someone to come out with a dinghy. Today he didn’t have time for that crap. He put down in the field behind the Free Church Manse.
The Nuclear Druid Page 22
