by Carl Sargent
Sauntering into the village, Michael and Geraint chatted casually about the weather and the grandeur of the scenery as they headed toward the road up to the chapel. They didn’t get far. Half a dozen sturdy French peasant farmers, each bearing a walking stick that looked very like a club, or else a spade or pitchfork, slowly congregated together from various directions and barred their Way.
“Excusez-moi, c’est le chapel de Sauniere?” Geraint said cheerfully, waving his cheap camera in a fair impression of the Idiot British Tourist in Europe.
The men just stood in their way and said nothing. Geraint and Michael took a step forward and one of the Frenchmen did the same, raising his spade and driving the metal into the ground beside the stony path. He spat on the ground before him, and the others stood with arms folded, clubs at the ready.
A further reasonable impression of the British Idiot only got Geraint the grunted statement that the chapel was closed to visitors. An enquiry as to when it would be open got no reply, only a hostile stare. There was nothing for it under the circumstances but to beat a retreat while trying to appear disappointed but unconcerned.
“It could just be paranoia,” Michael said when they were out of earshot. “On their part, I mean.” The men were still standing together halfway up the path. There was no sign of anyone else attempting to ascend it. Oddly, there seemed to be little sign of anyone else in the village, though by now, mid-morning, the houses should have been showing some signs of life and activity.
Stymied, they returned to the car, where the group discussed their options. Michael wanted to retreat to Toulouse, rescue his portable cyberdeck, and get some more research done, leaving Serrin more bookwork to get through. Streak, unsurprisingly, thought the terrain was fine for a covert approach and blasting his way past any obstacle that presented itself.
“Something’s going on up there,” Geraint observed. “They’re not protecting nothing. And we need to see what it is.”
The Sound of an automobile engine began to swell behind them. Their car was pulled just off the road, with enough tree cover to disguise if not conceal them. Streak slipped out of the driver’s seat and vanished into the trees like some predatory woodland animal. A few moments later, a flash of black and silver moved behind the trees and continued on into the village. They ate their bread, pate, and cheese and waited.
Streak did not reappear.
They were getting nervous by the time the black-and-silver reappeared, this time moving in the opposite direction, and not long afterward the elf emerged from the woodland.
“Now I wouldn’t want to get you alarmed,” he said gleefully as he climbed into the driver’s seat and broke himself off a sizable hunk of hard cheese, “but I think someone else was observing the village. Some interesting dark-suited gentlemen with no little in the way of chrome about them, unless I’m much mistaken.
“They just drove in, took a look around, and drove back out again. Couldn’t see much of them with the window tints, but I saw enough. Heavy rakkers. I doubt they came out here for nothing.”
“They just drove around the village?” Michael asked.
“Didn’t stop,” the elf confirmed.
“We’ve got to get into the chapel,” Michael said. “Who knows when they’ll be back-whoever they are.”
“We’ve got their book,” Kristen pointed out. “Let’s go for it,” Streak said.
The second time, all five of them marched up to face the line of peasantry with their crude weapons. Streak inched ahead of the others and conversed in French, Michael explaining to Serrin and Kristen the gist of what was being said. Streak produced the slim leather book and gestured with some animation at the impassive, hulking Frenchmen, pointing to the chapel and appearing very nonchalant.
“He says we just want to return some property that was stolen, and surely someone could come to collect it,” Michael translated.
The men’s hard-lined faces looked puzzled, uncertain. Streak’s request was certainly reasonable enough. At length, the largest of them leaned his hands on the handle of his broad-bladed shovel and grunted simply, “Non.”
Streak’s smile exceeded the determination of the man’s frown as he hefted his Predator squarely at the man’s head.
“S’il vous plait,” the elf said pleasantly. The man didn’t budge a centimeter. us knuckles went a little white on the wooden handle he gripped, but he didn’t flinch.
The impasse was broken when a slender man appeared from the front doorway of the chapel, ducking his head as he emerged even though he was not tall. Everyone looked at him as he descended the stony pathway, a tousle-haired man wearing one of those Italian suits that cost a fortune but don’t advertise the fact. He had the Mediterranean complexion of the other men here, but was otherwise utterly unlike them. As he drew closer, his expression broke into a casual lopsided grin. He shambled up to them, scratching at the crown of his head.
“Do we have a misunderstanding here?” he asked in perfect English.
“We only came to return some lost property, and I’m afraid these gentlemen took exception to our altruism, Streak said.
The man stared pointedly at his gun. Streak lowered it.
“Altruism down the barrel of a Predator,” he said dryly. “An unusual expression of that all too rare and noble emotion, wouldn’t you say?”
“To whom are we speaking?” Geraint enquired. “You may call me Gianfranco” the man said pleasantly. There was a short pause.
He did not ask who they were. The implication was obvious: he already knew.
“We had hoped that a conversation to discuss some matters of mutual interest might not be too much to hope for,” Geraint suggested.
“Then you have hoped in vain” Gianfranco said, still quite affably.
“There is the matter of your Mr. Seratini and the men at whose hands he died,” Geraint fired back.
“There is also the matter of our Monsieur Serrault and the people at whose hands he died,” Gianfranco replied sharply. “Now, if you will excuse me, their are several very well-armed and well-trained men at my instant beck and call and if you don’t turn around and get out of here this instant I will, with some little regret, have to ask them to blast you into a large number of bloody fragments, which my friends here,” he concluded with a glance back at the surly band of peasants, “wilt be able to feed to their dogs. Good day.”
He turned on his heel and marched back up the path. They watched his back until he disappeared through the doorway, slamming it shut behind him.
They looked at each other, at the still-impassive Frenchmen and back at each other again. With a shrug of his shoulders, Geraint led them back down the path and to their car.
“So much for that,” Michael said glumly. “Now to Plan B.”
“Which is?” Streak asked.
“I’m working on it,” Michael told him. “I think a strategic retreat is in order.”
Serrin suddenly looked alarmed and clutched at Streak’s shoulder. “Get us out of here!” he said urgently.
“What the-”
“I said, get us out of here!”
Streak fired the ignition, reversed out of their parking spot, and made haste down the road. He was five klicks away by the time the white-faced mage decided it was safe again.
“There was a summoning,” he said simply. “Another minute and the whole hill would have flung us over the rocks and into the valley. Trust me on this one.”
“Fair enough,” Streak said without any trace of his usual bantering. “Back to Clermont-Ferrand?”
“For now, yes,” Michael said miserably. “I don’t see we have any choice.”
Back in their villa, with a large pot of Streak’s preferred tea being dispensed into the cracked cups that came as part of the furnishings, they considered their sharply reduced options.
“Almost all of what we’ve got points here,” Michael said at length. “We have to talk to these people somehow. We’re hardly likely to get anywhere trying to ta
lk to the Inquisition. The Priory know something. I think they know who the decker is. We’ve got to get into that place.”
“Why did the bloke refuse point-blank even to talk?” Streak asked him.
“Because we don’t have anything they want,” Michael guessed. “They know everything we do and they don’t want us getting involved.”
“Then this”-Serrin clutched at the book he’d retrieved from Streak-“isn’t of any importance to them.”
“Which means-”
“Which means what’s in it doesn’t matter,” Serrin mused. “I don’t understand that. It has to matter, somehow.”
“Great. Let’s slot around worrying about textual analysis when what we need to do is talk to Gianfranco down the barrel of a gun,” Streak said. “I can get a couple of guys from over the border. Not that I put much store in the Spanish by and large, but I did merc work with ‘em and they might be able to get here by nightfall.”
“I can deck into their Matrix system and close down every alarm, servo, and automatic protective device they’ve got in there,” Michael said. “Hell, I can even get into the French grid, arrange it so they haven’t paid their bills for ten years, and get ‘em disconnected. Turning off the juice is very simple, and the effects can be devastating.”
“They’ll have a generator,” Streak pointed out. “Everyone around here does. But we could take those rakkers.”
“Oh, sure,” Serrin said sarcastically. “Bullets and grenades aren’t the problem. You’re forgetting something. I felt the power they’ve got up there. They could crush us like bugs with magic. Try using your pistols and grenades against that.”
“You can buy us enough time,” Streak cajoled.
“Right. I can make you a paper parasol for when the ten-kilo hailstones rain on your head,” Serrin told him.
“Look, I’ve got disabling stuff. Paralyzant gas grenades. Tasers. Smoke canisters. If we get surprised, we can buy enough time to get in, get one guy out of there-it’s all we need-and run like frag. What else have we got?”
“You can make your phone call,” Geraint said slowly. “Get those guys you trust. Then we’ll see.”
Streak was up and out of his chair before Geraint had even finished the sentence.
“Are you sure about this?” Michael asked earnestly.
“Of course I’m not bloody sure,” Geraint said, taking refuge in another cigarette. “But we don’t have any time, and it’s obvious they’re not going to talk peaceably. If we’re going to see this through I don’t think we have any other option. Why don’t you start getting into that data in earnest? If Sneak’s bringing people over the border, that gives you a couple of hours at least. About time you and Serrin came up with more than bulldrek from all that stuff.”
His voice was reproachful, and Michael wondered about that as he retreated to his deck. It’s almost as if he’s more motivated than I am, but it’s meant to be my show, he thought, not with resentment, but with curiosity and some puzzlement. Is it only that his own fortune might be threatened if our decker brings down the entire Matrix? Hardly. Not with all the land and property he owns. So why…
He forgot all the idle speculation as he began preparing the analytic frames. By the time the heavy raps came on the front door, it had long grown dark and Michael was completely oblivious to everything around him.
15
Streak had only been able to recruit two samurai, but they looked as if there were six of them. The ork, Juan, had shoulders that would have put a troll to shame. His skin gleamed. Looking him over, Michael guessed that he had dermal sheathing, which would explain his relatively light body armor The ork’s matching cyberarms, one with a gyromount installed in it, must have cost a fortune. Juan couldn’t have gotten it without being very, very good and very successful somewhere along the line. And probably more than once. But his cybereyes were dark and cold, and Michael noted how Kristen in particular gave him a very wide berth. He did, truly, look to be more machine than meat.
His human colleague was equally imposing. Xavier Came clad in full body armor, and moved with the strange and unnatural lightness, which, when it accompanied excessive size and weight, screamed “wired reflexes.” Michael sensed, though, that there was something more. The samurai had an occasional twitchiness in his muscles, around the eyes, that suggested the wiring was deeper and more powerful than usual. Streak has some over-powered friends, he thought.
“So you want to take a captive,” Juan said in a deep voice, richer in tone than the inhumanity of his appearance. He seemed almost disappointed.
“We need someone to interrogate,” Streak said. “That’s essential. That’s the mission goal.”
“What about corollary damage?” Xavier asked, in much better English than Michael would have expected.
“Irrelevant,” Streak said with relish.
“Wait a minute-” Geraint started.
“Look,” Streak said exasperatedly, “you want a prisoner or not? You say you’ve got five days. Now if you want someone to talk to, we do it our way. How many tactical raids have you mounted on reinforced installations packed with samurai and mages?”
“Okay, all right,” Geraint said testily. “But in this country, I can’t get us bailed out if we get into big-time trouble.”
“Which is why we’re not going to ponce around like a bunch of pansies,” Streak asserted. “And we’re going to use disabling approaches.”
“Pity,” Xavier said thoughtfully. “I’ve got some Byelorussian fire gel that could immolate the entire place inside five seconds. Wonderful stuff. Burns like crazy for that time and then, wham! The shrapnel cakes go ape and spray the firezone. It could take out a wizworm, honest. Well, with a depleted uranium boost it could, and I’ve got some of that too.”
“We said disablement?” Geraint said incredulously.
“Yeah, right,” Streak said. “Okay, terms, you know the deal here. You also know what their strengths are likely to be. How’s that Matrix work coming along, Mikey?”
“Nothing difficult,” Michael told him. “I can disable the system exactly when you want it done.”
“And you, brother?” Streak said to Serrin, who grimaced a little at the overfamiliarity.
“I’ve prepared us as I can,” Serrin told him with a shrug. There was little point in going into detail on the spell locks he carried, the rituals he’d prepared, the barriers he’d primed as best he could. They would hold for a while, but that wouldn’t be long. To hide his irritation he made for the kitchen. After a moment Kristen padded after him on bare feet.
Streak and the other samurai pored over the map spread before them. “We come in from the south, I think,” the elf said. “Divide up. Juan and I will go in first. Michael and Geraint can cover us. Xavier, you’re gonna hang back and use the ranged stuff, and cover Serrin here as well. Yeah?”
“I want to be on elevated terrain to be able to provide auxiliary cover if you need it,” Xavier said. “Not to mention that I don’t want to do everything with IR and laser sighting. You’ve been up there in the daylight. Where’s the best spot?”
“You want to be up high, with cover as well?” Streak grinned. “Don’t we always want everything? Here”-he stabbed a finger into the map-“looks about best to my way of thinking. Should be enough green drek to cover your arse. And you’ve got some magical camouflage from Serrin.”
Serrin was arguing with Kristen in the kitchen, their voices growing increasingly audible.
Streak chuckled. “I think the girlie doesn’t want to stay barefoot in the kitchen.”
“I’ve seen her shoot a guy in the head and save someone’s life,” Geraint informed him. “So not so much of the ‘girlie’, please. She can look after herself. She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t a member of the team.”
“Keep her back with Serrin and Xavier then.” Streak was serious now. “She may have guts, but she ain’t got no smartgun link and she shouldn’t be up with the professionals.”
“F
air enough,” Geraint said. “Time to get that body armor on, Michael. Are you sure you want in on this?”
“I’ve done enough night work with firearms.” Michael said. “Hell, I live in the Rotten Apple. It’s the second thing you do when you arrive.”
“What’s the first?” Streak asked.
“Practice shooting in daylight,” Michael told him.
Streak laughed, then hefted his LMG and pack. “Let’s get this show on the road. We’ve got an hour in the car to go through every step. They’re going to be crying in the chapel tonight.”
Michael looked puzzled.
“It’s an old, old song,” Streak told him. “You want to get some culture, term.”
“When I hear the word culture-” Xavier burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I know. But you don’t need to hear that word, you psychopathic fragger, you just love reachin’ for your gun anyway.” Streak threw back his head and laughed along with him.
They parked the cars a couple of kilometers out. They had a time persuading Serrin to risk any assensing, but he found no trace of either watchers or other similar precautions at this range and it looked as if the Priory mages weren’t expecting them back.
“I can’t risk it when we get closer,” he said. “We’ll have to trust that the barriers work.”
“Then we’ll have to move fast,” Streak said. “Can’t risk getting any closer in the cars. They’ll be detected too easily.”
They crept along the uncomfortable path with its stones and undergrowth straying on to the walkway, the cloudy night giving them no helpful moonlight to see by. They were halfway to the hill when the sound of a heavy engine began to approach from the south. They were well away from the roadway, and Streak dived off into the night to see what was coming.
They were nearing the hill when the elf returned. In the dark, the alarm on the elf’s blackened face wasn’t entirely obvious. When he spoke, though, his concern was all too tangible.
“I don’t want to worry you,” he whispered, “but there’s one seriously big fragger of a truck riding up to the hill. Looks like a twenty-tonner. Black as sin and completely sealed. I could hardly even see the thing. Can’t get any scan on what’s inside it.”
