by Mel Odom
The reporter’s voice-over announced that this was the fourth reported case this week of what they’d started calling the laughing death disease, and that Lone Star had quarantined one of the maddened killers and turned her over to their labs for testing. The condition was apparently caused by a virus, but it was as yet unidentified. This was the first Skater had heard of it, but it seemed to fit right in with everything else that had happened since this night had begun.
“You got a service contract with Doc Wagon?” a man in the next cell asked.
Skater started at the question. Wheeler Iron-Nerve worked as a rigger for DocWagon as his straight job, and Duran, Shiva, and Elvis had all freelanced for the corp’s paramedic teams from time to time. But calling for DocWagon while on a run wouldn’t have been good biz.
“No.” was all he said.
‘"Good thing. The skinny I get on this drek, these crazies popping up around town have all been clients of DocWagon.”
“What does DocWagon say?”
“You kidding, chummer? At this point, nada. Ain’t they just another corp? Cover-up’s a specialty, if you know what I mean.”
Skater listened to the man talk for a while, then exhaustion finally had its way and sucked him down into a maze of dark dreams that promised no rest at all.
11
Whispering voices woke Skater and he lay still in the cot, peering through slitted eyes and kicking in the low-light vision enhancement.
A handful of shadows drifted to a stop in front of his cell. He was still figuring the odds when the lock on the cell door snapped open. It was probably harder to break into Lone Star than any other place in the whole Seattle sprawl, yet these people were doing it. Since he was in general lock-up waiting for his appearance in court and not one of the high-sec levels, it would have been easier. But not much.
And they were after him.
“Breakout!” he shouted as he rose to his feet in a defensive crouch. Then he yelled again to attract attention and alert the security systems, and to push up his adrenaline levels as he swung a bunched fist at the lead elf rushing toward him.
Flesh gave way under Skater’s fist, and an elf howled a curse in Sperethiel as he dropped backward. All the elves were dressed in loose black clothing and moved like a unit. Their reflexes were military, concise and telling.
Skater caught a long leg speeding toward his face. Grabbing the elf’s ankle over his shoulder, he dropped into a crouch and hammered his other hand home into his attacker’s groin. He straightened and used the leg as a fulcrum, propelling the man back into his mates.
More confused yelling, angry and frightened, filled the slammer as other prisoners came awake.
Skater fought from desperation, the confines of the cell not permitting much skill. He punched and kicked, and clawed and bit, focusing all his energies on reaching the cell door. He sent a wheel-kick rocketing, knocking an elf back into the arms of another behind him. For a moment, a path was clear to the door and he wasted no time making for it. He hurdled one elf who’d fallen and grabbed a bar to pull himself around the corner.
He didn’t see the elf waiting for him until he was almost on top of him. This one was short and stocky, unusual for an elf, a few centimeters shorter than Skater and at least that much broader.
The elf came at Skater at a dead run, jamming a shoulder into his stomach, then crowding him up against the cell bars. Skater lost his breath as soon as the elf hit him, then heard the dull thunk of his head smashing up against one of the bars. A pyrotechnic display rattled the inside of his skull as his legs and arms turned rubbery.
“Secure him.” the elf said, pushing back from Skater, barely breathing hard. “Let’s get the frag out of here. The alert’s gonna go off any minute now.”
Skater felt cold steel clamp around his wrists and ankles, heard the ratcheting noises as they locked, then blacked out before he knew it.
* * *
Cold water splashed over Skater and brought him back to consciousness. This time he was handcuffed to a chair, his arms pinned painfully behind him and his ankles taped to the chair legs. A single bulb burned from a bell-shaped cover overhead, lighting up him, the chair, and the grease-stained concrete floor under them. People were in a ring around him. He saw their shoes just beyond the light’s reach.
He didn’t try to feign unconsciousness. He knew from the way the figures surrounding him shifted that they knew he was back on-line. A headache felt like a fusion processor reaching critical mass between his temples. His mouth was swollen, tasted of blood.
Fear filled him but he kept it under control. Whoever these elves were, they wanted something from him, and they wanted it bad enough to crack Lone Star to get him. Otherwise they'd have killed him long before now. As long as they wanted that something, he’d live. He hung on to that thought.
The smells of oils and fuels told him he was in a warehouse. And the smell of poverty—dust and dead meat—cutting through these industrial odors told him this was one that hadn’t been used for any straight biz for quite awhile. Plenty of warehouses existed around the sprawl, some of them working and some empty. A lot of them changed hands regularly, few of them really traceable to an individual owner or a corporation through the straw companies that ostensibly owned them.
One of the elves moved forward, into the light. Judging from his build. Skater made him as the elf who’d put him down in the cell.
“Are you with us?” the elf demanded. “Or shall I have another bucket of water drawn?”
“I'm here.” Skater said.
Besides being short and stocky, the elf appeared to be in his late middle years, with close-set charcoal eyes as polished as gunsights that marked him as a hunter. Scars crisscrossed his exposed flesh, including his face, war-maps of past battles he’d survived. His dark hair was cut short, not long enough to be grabbed, and was blistered with gray. One particular gray streak followed the jagged line of a knife scar along the side of his head to his right ear, which was missing at least three centimeters of its upper point.
He wore a gray pinstriped business suit, not too flashy, but not off-the-rack either. Navy suspenders held his pants up, as well as a shoulder holster containing a Seco pistol. His shirt sleeves were rolled to mid-forearm, but Skater didn’t get the impression it was for appearance. The elf was a man who was used to work. He shook a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and cracked a wooden match with his thumbnail to get it going.
Skater felt like he should know him. He was certain he’d seen the guy somewhere recently. But the cigarette pack was printed in Sperethiel, definitely an elven brand. Skater had never been to Tir Taimgire, and he sensed that was all this man had known.
“You took something from that freighter.” the elf said. “I want it back, and I want the names of everyone who has copies of it.”
“No matter what I say,” Skater said, “you’re not going to believe me. You’re going to have to make sure.”
A thin, mirthless smile scarred the man’s mouth, looking out of place. “Of course.”
“Then let’s get to it.” Skater said. “We’re wasting time here.”
“You’ve an admirable spirit, Mr. Skater.” the elf said. “I would enjoy crossing swords with you at some other time, both verbal and steel, and I’m assured that you’re no stranger to either. But I, too, am pressed by time. ‘Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.’ Parkinson’s Law. You’ve probably never heard that before.”
“Not to know who it came from.” Skater agreed. He shifted slightly, like he was trying to work the circulation back into his legs. At the same time he was pulling on the handcuffs, testing the flex in the right one. “Did you kill Larisa Hartsinger?”
“No.” The elf’s face was stone, giving nothing away.
Except that he hadn’t asked who Larisa Hartsinger was, Skater realized. “Who tipped you to me?”
"We had your picture from the ship. A few offers of financial reward here in Seattle, we
had your name.”
“The yakuza were out there, too. They hit the ship’s system, not us.”
"They’re hunting you.”
“Maybe they’d like you to think so.”
The elf took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew on it till the coal was bright orange. “However it turns out, we’re going to start with you and see where that takes us.” He waved another man forward.
The new arrival was taller by a head than the first elf, and built like a rail. His dark red mohawk stood at least twenty centimeters high, and glittered from jeweled dust. He was young, maybe as little as nineteen or twenty, though Skater knew it was hard to tell with elves. In a synthleather vest over an open black shirt and dark denims and wearing go-gang stomper boots, he looked like he knew his way around the sprawl. A series of hoops of increasing size ringed both pointy ears, alternating gold and silver. His black gloves had the fingers chopped out of them.
“Find out what he knows.” the first elf said.
The elven mage smiled slightly, then touched the jeweled amulet at his throat as he gestured and spoke a string of words in Sperethiel.
Skater felt the spell take him, warned only a heartbeat before by the slight shimmering net of activity that jetted from the mage’s fingers and jumped for him. It felt like a red-hot icicle had been jammed into his brain.
Memories of growing up on Council lands crashed through his synapses. He smelled his grandmother’s cooking, felt the tug of the first fish he ever caught, and listened to the timbre of his grandfather voicing displeasure. There was a momentary flash of the wind in his face from the assault on the Sapphire Seahawk, the vibration of his sword clanging against one of the elven sailor’s. He pulled the pain in deep until it consumed him and pushed everything else away.
In response, Skater felt the psychic knife filleting his mind shift angles. The number of memories became fewer, but their duration lasted longer.
Slick blood coated Skater’s hand. Somewhere out there he could fee! it. He hoped none of his captors noticed it was slowly coming free. Or maybe he was only imagining it. He forced his spasms to work with him, pulling on the arm till it felt like his shoulder was about to pop out of the socket.
“I’ve got the troll who was with him.” the mage said confidently. “A few more minutes, I’ll have the others, too.”
“Lone Star confiscated his clothes and possessions.” someone said.
“What about his doss?” the stocky elf asked.
“We didn’t find anything.” one of the other elves answered.
Skater focused on the lead elf, trying to fill his mind with how he looked. Shiva was in his mind again, and he knew the mage had her image as well.
“I’ve got two of them.” the mage said. Perspiration gleamed in sliding diamonds on his pale face. “There were seven of them all together, but one may be dead.”
The odor reached Skater first, rising up and separating itself out of all the rest. It was dense and suffocating, freshly turned, wet earth that had sat and mildewed for a long time.
Pain cut across the back of his right hand as he gained another centimeter or two on the cuff. He felt it resting across the first knuckle of his little finger. Blood pulsed against the steel. He knew he couldn’t wait much longer. The damage was bruising his flesh and it was starting to swell. In another few seconds he wouldn’t be able to get close to pulling his hand through.
Skater opened his eyes and focused on the mage. He was still shaking, like he had palsy. Fever spots burned on his cheeks and perspiration ran down his neck, soaking his clothes. Shadows lurked behind the elves. At first he thought it was just his imagination firing off the invasive mind filling his own. The shapes shambled toward the elves with a strange, almost drunken gait.
Then the shambling shadows closed on the elves. Skater recognized them for what they were, ghouls, and couldn’t stop the insane laughter that cackled out of him. It was incredible. The smell was all around, but the elves weren’t aware of it. Somehow the mage fragging around in his mind had magnified his olfactory nerves, maybe his vision and hearing too, because now he could spot the odd bit of gray-white scabrous hide and hear the scrape of near-dead flesh over the paved warehouse floor.
The psychic knife turned in Skater’s mind again as he watched the things creep closer. The lamplight shone against their yellow fangs and long, gray nails. “They were able to download the files from the ship’s system before the yakuza got to them.” the mage said.
“Where are the files?”
The mage hesitated, and Skater felt the mind probe penetrate further, questing with direction. “More than one copy exists.”
Skater felt his trapped hand slide free. The handcuffs dangled from his other wrist, tapping against the back of the chair. He blinked perspiration out of his eyes, setting himself because he knew it was going down quick.
“I’ve got the decker’s face.” the mage said. “An elven female. She may be known to us.”
“Only a little longer.” the stocky elf said. “Then we'll dispose of him and get on about our business.”
The ghouls closed the distance separating them from their prey. Skater couldn’t believe they would attack seven armed men. even though they outnumbered the elves two to one. But who really knew what ghouls were like or how they behaved? One thing was obvious: the lure of human and metahuman flesh was irresistible to them. As ghouls, they existed on the edges of the sprawl, bringing down the weak, sick, or young, or dining on the freshly dead. Probably some sort of accident, no doubt involving dead bodies, had drawn them to this warehouse.
The leader of the pack wore a Mortimer of London longcoat over jeans and a lavender tanktop that emphasized the gray-white death pallor of the exposed flesh. He gestured, and two of the others peeled off and attacked the nearest elf. who was watching Skater with interest.
One of the scabrous creatures grabbed the elf by the shoulder and pulled him around. The elf started to say something, but a swipe of the long, hardened nails opened his throat, killing any noise he might have made. Still, the dying man’s finger tightened on his Sandler. A line of bullets stuttered across the concrete floor and took out the second ghoul.
The stocky elf turned at once. Deadly quick, he dropped his hand, then had it up again pointing the Seco pistol as if by magic.
Skater felt the psychic knife leave his mind as soon as the mage’s attention wavered. The ghouls moved forward, overwhelming the elves by sheer numbers.
The stocky elf killed one of them before it reached him. Another one was at pointblank range when he lifted the pistol and put a round through one of its eyes. The forward momentum didn’t stop, and the dead ghoul came crashing across the stocky elf, knocking him to the floor.
The elven mage worked his hands, gathering the power needed to wield a spell. Before he could finish, a wall of force slammed into him. His broken body fell away, and from the slack way it landed, Skater was pretty sure the elf was history.
Skater stood, intending to get free of the chair. Guns blasted all around him, filling the warehouse with a blitzkrieg of flash and thunder. Screams and curses in Sperethiel punctuated the gunshots.
Before Skater could free one leg, a ghoul shoved its way through two elves who were trying to bring their weapons up and defend themselves at the same time. Skater straightened in time to catch the charging thing with a hand over its forehead. Skater’s other hand knotted in the cloth remaining of the ghoul’s stained, ripped shirt. Unable to get out of the way, the ghoul bowled him over with its sheer ferocity.
The wooden chair smashed when Skater and the ghoul landed on top of it. Skater’s legs came free, carrying tatters of the tape and fragments of the chair. He was engulfed by the foul stench of the huge thing on top of him, and struggled not to throw up. It breathed on him, foul and heavy, wet against the bare skin of his neck.
He kept his hands locked in place, holding the thing at bay while its fangs gnashed for him. The ghoul swung a handful of claws in his f
ace. Skater twisted, and the claws shattered against the pavement. It howled in frustrated anger.
An elf fell beside Skater, two of the ghouls on top of him. The elf shot one in the chest as it tried to smash his head between its hands. But even as the dead one fell away, the remaining one sank its fangs into his abdomen and slapped the gun away. The elf was screaming and trying to fight as the thing raised its head with crimson staining its mouth. With no wasted motion, the ghoul rammed a hand deep into the wound it had created in the elf’s stomach, going all the way up to the elbow before it stopped. The elf shivered, went stiff, and died between heartbeats.
Releasing his hold on the ghoul’s shirt, Skater bent its arm and with surprising ease, thrust its forearm and hand with the long, hardened nails into the side of its head. Blood spurted inside the creature’s eye, threading a scarlet mosaic instantly through the ash-gray jelly.
Without mercy, Skater opened his hand and swung a short heel blow into the broken area of the ghoul’s skull. The shattered plates of bone grated against each other, but sank inward to crush the brain. The sentient light in the creature’s eyes went out and the muscles relaxed.
Skater rolled the dead body off him and forced himself to his feet. The teddy bear he’d picked up at Larisa’s lay a few steps away, one of the ears nearly torn off. Reaching down, he plucked it from the floor and shoved it inside the loose jail jumper. Then he picked up a nearby chair leg.
A ghoul sprang at him, lips ricked back to expose the broken fangs. Strings of muscle tissue clotted with blood hung from them.
Side-stepping, Skater swung the short length of the chair leg. It wasn’t heavy, so he knew he had to depend on speed and timing. The makeshift club landed with a satisfying thunk against the back of the ghoul’s skull as it went stumbling by. The corpse sprawled and tumbled, fading back into the shadows,
“Freeze, rat-frag.” an elf commanded. He moved out of the pile of bodies battling all around him. His pistol was centered on Skater’s chest. Stray bullets impacted against the pavement from at least two other guns, spitting sparks.
