It was as if he could sense the infinity of creation all around him, with himself at the very center. A tiny, infinitesimally small point. Alone, vulnerable . . . inconsequential.
But then the universe turned inside out; he turned inside out. The infinity was still there, but now it was inside him. The universe was an infinitesimal point, within the infinity that was Dennis Falk. He gasped again in wonder.
“Don’t worry.” Mary’s voice came to him softly. “I’ll be with you. There’s nothing to fear.”
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“You’re walking the path of the totems,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded even more distant, twisted and shifted out of all human timbre. Her last words seemed to echo around him, through him. “The totems, the totems, the totems, the totems ...”
In sudden alarm Falcon opened his eyes.
But it wasn’t the grimy back room of the Buffalo Jump that he saw.
27
0115 hours, November 16, 2053
So this was Reservoir Park. The cab driver had known right off when Sly told him her destination, so there was no risk she was in the wrong place.
The cab driver. At first it had irked her that Falcon hadn’t come back with the Callaway. But then she realized that she hadn’t given him any reason to think she’d be needing the car so soon. Besides, the Callaway was definitely an attention-grabber, definitely not appropriate for this meet. The cab had dropped her off on Deming Drive, half a klick from the park, and she’d walked the rest of the way.
Reservoir Park was a rolling expanse of grass several hundred meters across. A promontory projected out into the reservoir, which, presumably, provided drinking water for Cheyenne. A gentle breeze was blowing off the water, chill and refreshing. Sly imagined that the place was probably a riot of colors in spring and summer, with flowers spilling out of the many soil beds that surrounded the grassy area. At this time of year, however, the flower beds were empty, leaving only plots of bare soil.
Near the far end of the park, just south of the promontory, was a circular building maybe twenty meters in diameter. That had to be the Roundhouse Moonhawk had mentioned. Sly walked slowly toward it, loosening her heavy revolver in its holster.
Drawing closer, she could see that the Roundhouse didn’t have any walls as such, just pillars, probably ferrocrete, supporting a conical roof. For a moment she was puzzled, then realized it must have been designed as a shelter for picnickers in the event of a sudden rainstorm. She smiled wryly to herself. Maybe she’d been in the shadows too long. Sly had almost forgotten that normal people did things like go on picnics.
The Roundhouse was an excellent site for a meet, she had to admit. There were no other buildings, no bushes or trees nearby, nothing to conceal anyone who might wish to sneak up on her and her contact. The fact that she could see clearly into the Roundhouse once she got closer also greatly lessened the odds of a setup.
Sly checked her watch. Still more than ten minutes to go until the time of the meet. Cautiously, she did a full circuit of the Roundhouse, keeping about fifty meters out from the building, scouting the terrain for cover that someone might use to creep up on the meeting. Nothing. Nobody there and no way anyone could get within twenty meters without exposing himself. Satisfied, she crouched down near the bank of the reservoir and waited.
At exactly oh-one-thirty, a light came on inside the Roundhouse. Sly could see that it was from a camp-style battery lantern apparently resting on a table. In the yellow light, she also saw a small, slender figure standing in the center of the building. She waited a few minutes more, hoping to create some tension that would serve her interests in the negotiations. Only then did she slowly begin to move in.
The figure, presumably Hal, was turned north, away from the reservoir, in the direction of the main road leading here. Silent as a ghost, Sly approached from the opposite direction, from the reservoir side, able to observe her contact carefully as she did.
Hal appeared to be an elf, short for that metatype, but with the characteristic slender bone structure and slightly pointed ears. He wore blue jeans, a jean jacket, and motorcycle boots. His blond hair was short and subtly spiked on top, shoulder-length at the back. Slung over his shoulder on a padded strap was a metal case about the size of a briefcase. Sly smiled with approval. It looked like he’d brought her stuff.
She made it all the way to the edge of the Roundhouse’s concrete floor before Hal heard the first sound of her approach. He spun around in surprise, but didn’t reach for any concealed weapon. Sly stepped forward, holding her empty hands out from her body.
“I assume you’re Hal,” she said.
The elf gave her a grim, ironic smile. “And I know who you are, Sly,” he said.
That voice, she’d heard it before. But where?
And then she remembered. On the Seattle docks, just before the sniper had opened fire. . . .
Setup!
Simultaneously with that horrible realization, the figure facing her shimmered like a mirage, changed. Grew taller and broader, its face twisting into more familiar lines. Even the clothing changed from casual denims to a semi-military uniform. She recognized the face grinning down at her. Knife-Edge, the leader of the Amerindian runners who’d tried to kill her at the Hyundai terminal.
Instinctively she threw herself aside, hand clawing for the big Warhawk. Too late, she knew, too slow. Knife-Edge was unarmed. But as the illusion magic ended and the runner was assuming his true shape, her peripheral vision caught other figures flickering into view around her. Illusions and invisibility . . .
She hit the ground, rolled, bringing her gun up. Trying to bring it into line on Knife-Edge.
She saw one of the other figures, a skeletally thin Amerindian with feathers in his hair and assorted fetishes dangling from his belt, point his finger at her. She tried to roll aside, as if the finger were the barrel of a gun.
The thin man’s lips moved.
Oblivion followed, hitting Sly like a missile.
* * *
Consciousness returned as suddenly as it had fled. No slow, drowsy transition, just a sharp demarcation separating nothingness from full awareness.
Sly kept her eyes closed, forced her body to remain perfectly still, not wanting anyone else to know she was awake. It gave her time to run a quick inventory of her physical sensations.
She was sitting upright in a padded, high-backed chair. Her hands were secured to the arms of the chair by tight bands around her wrists. Her ankles were tied together, and broad bands encircled her waist and chest, binding her body to the chair back. A padded headband was around her forehead, positioned just above her datajack, immobilizing her head. She didn’t need to try to know she couldn’t move a muscle.
A sickening rush of fear shot through her. This was exactly what they’d done to Agarwal. It took all the control she could muster not to buck and twist, fight against the bindings. She concentrated on her breathing, keeping it even, deep, and slow.
“Don’t bother.” The voice sounded close to her ear, making her jump. “We know you’re awake.”
For a moment she considered bluffing it out, but it was futile. Sly opened her eyes, looked around.
She was in a small, windowless room whose walls, floor, and ceiling were of bare concrete. Her chair, in the center of the room, was the only furniture. Three men stood around her. Two she recognized at once: Knife-Edge, still wearing his semi-military uniform, and the cadaverous, fetish-festooned shaman who’d put her out at the Roundhouse. The third figure was a small, weasely-looking woman who stood well away from the others, watching with a kind of emotionless curiosity that made Sly very uncomfortable. Knife-Edge and the shaman both had pistols holstered on their belts; the woman was apparently unarmed.
Knife-Edge jandered up to Sly, crouched down in front of her until his eyes were on a level with hers. She tried to kick him, but her ankles were secured to the chair as well as to each other.
“I’m glad we can finally
have a quiet discussion,” the Amerindian said calmly. “This time without the risk of interruption.”
“You should have been standing twenty centimeters to the left,” Sly growled.
Knife-Edge touched his left side, where the sniper’s bullet had punched through his body. He smiled. “That might have made a difference to me,” he admitted, “but not to you. Even with my spine shot in half, someone else would have eventually been having this discussion with you, you know.” His cold smile faded. “Now, I think you should tell me where the data is. I know you don’t have it on you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the passcard for the motel room.
“Hotels never put their names on their passcards anymore,” he went on conversationally. “Normally I think that’s a good idea. It reduces thefts. But at the moment it’s very irritating. My guess is that the datachip we’re looking for is in this hotel room.”
Sly smiled grimly. “Lots of hotels in Cheyenne, aren’t there, drekhead?”
“Which is why you’re going to tell us which one it is,” he said quietly. “You’re also going to tell us where you’ve hidden the chip and how to get around any security provisions you’ve set up.”
“Or you’re going to work me over the same way you did Agarwal, right?” She tried to keep her voice steady, but didn’t quite succeed.
Knife-Edge shook his head slowly. “That wasn’t us,” he told her. “That was barbaric and primitive. Dangerous, too. There’s always the chance the subject will die before breaking. A weak heart, a brain aneurysm ... so many things can go wrong. We’ve updated the procedure. The, um, persuasive benefits of torture without the physical risks.” He chuckled, the sound sending a shudder through Sly’s body. “Why damage the physical body at all when we can directly access to the mind?” He reached out and gently touched Sly’s datajack with a fingertip.
Oh, Jesus fragging Christ . . . She flung herself against the straps that held her. Uselessly. They didn’t give a centimeter, just bit deeper into her flesh as she struggled against them. She couldn’t even tip over the chair she was strapped into.
Knife-Edge merely watched her dispassionately until she stopped, panting with exertion. He beckoned to the woman.
She approached, taking something from her pocket. A small black box not much bigger than her palm. Trailing from one end of it was a fiber-optic lead tipped with a brain plug. The woman took the plug, reached out to insert it into Sly’s datajack.
“No!” Sly screamed. She tried to turn her head, to pull it away from the plug. But the headband, too, was tight enough to prevent any movement. She could do nothing as the woman slipped the plug firmly into the datajack. Sly felt the click as it socketed into place. Waves of sickening fear and despair washed over her.
“You can tell us what we want to know at any time,” Knife-Edge said. “Then we’ll turn off the box.”
“And then you'll kill me,” Sly spat.
Knife-Edge stood, shrugged. “Why should we?” he asked reasonably. “There’s no percentage in it once we’ve got what we want.”
“Liar!” she shouted.
Knife-Edge nodded to the weasel woman, headed for the single door. “Catch you later, Sly,” he said tauntingly.
The woman pressed a button on the black box.
Images of defilement, degradation, and terror blossomed in Sly’s mind. And overlaying everything was wrenching, burning agony.
Sly couldn’t help herself. There was nothing to do but scream.
28
Falcon stood on a rolling plain covered with green grass and a profusion of wildflowers. The air smelled fresh and pure, untouched by man and his taint, as clean as it must have been when the world was new. A breeze stirred the grass, ruffled his hair, bringing him more distant scents of deep, old-growth forests.
How long have I been here? he wondered. A moment? My whole life? Forever, since the dawn of time? Deep within, he recognized that the true answer had something of all three.
The breeze brought him more than scents: the chuckle of a distant stream, a symphony of birdcalls . . . And, beyond them all, there was music. A low complex rhythm and melody. Strong and dignified, ringing with power. But joyful too, free and unchained. The music seemed to resonate within him, resounding with the fundamental frequencies of his bones, his nerves, setting up an echo in the very core of him. He could still hear it with his ears. But now he could also hear it with his heart. The music called to him, and he came.
He ran toward the distant source of it, ran faster than he’d ever run before, faster than any human could. Ran faster than the deer, swifter even than the eagle. There was no strain, no effort. His breathing was as slow and steady as if he were standing still, perfectly relaxed. But still he ran on, with every passing moment gaining more and more speed.
And running with him was someone else, effortlessly keeping pace. Mary Windsong.
And yet not Mary, not quite. There was something different about her appearance. Her hair looked more like the pelt of an animal, her nose and jaws more pronounced, almost resembling a snout. But the eyes were hers, as was the smile.
He bared his teeth in a wild, feral smile, and howled his joy to the infinite azure skies. “Why didn’t you tell me it would be like this?” he cried to the girl.
Her laughter was like bright mountain melt water dancing over stones. “Would you have believed me?”
They ran on.
How long did they run, how far? The questions were meaningless here, Falcon knew. Here they experienced time, but were not of it. They were outside the world as he knew it. Maybe he should have been afraid, but with the wind in his hair and the music in his heart, fear was inconceivable.
Now he could see the forest rising ahead of him. Almost instantly they came to its edge, and were forced to slow down, to walk rather than run.
Sunlight lanced shifting golden beams through the leaves overhead as he and Mary Windsong walked along.
He heard large animals moving on either side, invisible in the underbrush, flanking them as they moved. Again he probed his emotions for fear, found none. The animals aren’t stalking us, he realized, they’re escorting us.
The music still sounded, clearer and stronger now, its source somewhere ahead. After some immeasurable time, they reached a clearing, a great grassy opening in the midst of the forest. Falcon stepped into the open, hesitated when he saw that Mary had stopped, still standing within the trees.
“I can guide you no further,” she replied to his unspoken question,”but you have no further need of my guidance. See?” She pointed. He looked in the direction she indicated.
The clearing was no longer empty as it had been a moment before. A large animal stood in the midst of the open space. A wolf, gray-black and with hackles of silver, watched Falcon steadily.
No, not a wolf. This was Wolf.
Now, for the first time, he felt fear. His stomach twisted, his pulse pounded in his head. I can't do this. . . .
He looked back at Mary for help. She smiled reassuringly, nodded to him. Go ahead. He heard the words, her voice, inside his head.
The music was still there, around him, within him, still calling to him. How could he deny it? This is what I’ve wanted all my life. . . . Isn’t it? He swallowed hard, stepped forward.
The first step was the hardest. As he drew nearer to Wolf, his fear lifted, to be replaced once more with anticipation—just as intense, but enabling rather than incapacitating. The creatures that had traveled alongside through the forest now stepped forth into the sunlight. Timber wolves, huge but still smaller than Wolf. They kept their distance, watching Falcon respectfully, pacing him like an honor guard.
And then Wolf was before him, its great gray eyes steady. The music faded from Falcon’s ears, but continued to sound fully in his heart.
”Do you know me?” The words—clear and sharp as crystal—rang within Falcon's mind. Wolf’s mouth didn’t move, but Falcon had no doubt whose mental “voice” he was hearing.
H
e swallowed again, forced words through a dry throat. “I know you.” Only as he said it did he realize it was true. “I have always known you, just didn't know that I knew.”
“As I have known you.” Wolf moved closer; Falcon felt its breath warm on his face. “My song is within you, Man. It has always been there, though you could not hear it. Now you can hear it, and you can choose to follow it.
“But if you do so choose, it will be difficult, sometimes the most difficult thing you have ever done. It may demand from you more than you feel willing to give. But never will it demand more than you can give.
“Will you follow it, Man?”
Emotions warred within Falcon. Fear, exaltation, sadness, anticipation. He was overwhelmed by the enormity of what Wolf said—even more by what Wolf left unsaid. But the song still rang within his breast, and he could no more have answered differently than he could have stopped breathing. “I will follow it.”
“Then you have taken your first steps on the path of the shaman.” Wolf told him. “You will embellish my song, you will make it your own, as does each one who hears it with the heart. Now, I would teach you some other songs—lesser songs, perhaps, but still songs of power.”
Falcon bowed his head. There was nothing he could say, nothing he wanted to say.
And that was when the first scream sounded in his head. A woman’s scream, one of absolute agony, powerful enough almost to unseat his reason.
He spun, looked back at Mary. She still stood at the edge of the forest, watching him, the expression on her face confused now. The scream hadn’t been hers; she hadn’t even heard it.
It sounded again, louder, even more piercing. And this time he recognized whose voice it was.
Sly!
A third scream. He could feel her agony almost as if it were his own, feel her terror and her powerlessness. Could feel her calling for help. Calling to him?
He turned back to Wolf. The great creature seemed totally unmoved, as though not hearing the screams. “I would teach you songs,” Wolf repeated.
“I can’t.” The words were out of his mouth even before Falcon could think.
Shadowplay Page 28
