Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  She studied the structure, such as it was, and made a rough guess on just how large her reptile friend might be to create this size of a hollow space around her with its body.

  Oh, yeah. Big. Really, really big.

  Relative to its length and girth, this substantial space was rather small. The thing must be wrapped around her in a very tight, tight knot and likely had yards and yards of itself left over fore and aft.

  What, if anything, would happen if she touched it? Would the serpent even notice her? And react? Adversely?

  One way to find out.

  She touched the scales. Lightly. It'd be just her bad luck if the god was ticklish and crushed her by accident, but nothing happened.

  She ran her hand along the curve of flesh, registering the texture, smooth one way, rough in the other as she'd observed on some types of lizards. So the head would be wound in that direction, likely on the outside of the ball it had made of itself. What a relief not to be able to see it. Size factors, scary features, and big teeth aside, she had a gut feeling that it was just not the done thing to look a god in the eye unless one was invited. This god wasn't of a religion she was particularly familiar with, but that didn't matter. It was a respect thing.

  "Hallo? Anyone out there?"

  Why in hell had she said anything? Well, there were no "keep silent" signs up. Might as well have been. The walls threw her voice back, flat, as though no one wanted to hear her little troubles.

  Sod that.

  "Hallo? I'm up now. Want to tell me what's going on?"

  Uh-oh, that's torn it. She saw and felt a vast shifting all around. Her cage was on the move all right, thankfully not inward. That was good. Don't crush your redheaded date, all right?

  Two rounded sections parted lengthwise in a body-long curve. She steadied herself against the opposite wall and shone her torch into the dark opening. It was a good foot wide. Enough for her to squeeze through, but instinct told her that might be a bad idea. Air swept in, indication of wind activity. Until now she'd been unaware of the stuffiness of her confines. It smelled strongly—no surprise there—of snake. They did have a distinctive scent. She knew a man who could smell them. He didn't like them much, either, which might have had to do with his sensitivity to the odor. This place would have given him a heart attack.

  Her light caught on a black yet glittering surface. Large. Everything here was large except herself.

  Sharon gulped. It was an eye. Kukulcan was looking at her.

  Bloody hell, what was the polite thing to do for that? In just about every mythology and religion she'd read up on it was usually a bad moment for the mere mortal who caught the attention of a god.

  "Hallo. I'm Sharon."

  It didn't blink or move, just kept staring. Snakes didn't have eyelids, did they? Some kind of inner membrane or the like. It threw mammals off-kilter concerning their body language, which they didn't care for, probably why people made such an issue about killing snakes. Even a lion chasing you down on the veldt for its supper can blink. You could understand that, guess what was on its hungry little mind by the smallest facial signals.

  No such signals of similarity here. The mind here was as alien as it could get and still be on earth.

  Maybe not on earth. Not the world or Reality she knew.

  "See here, things were pretty bad back there, an' I'm thinking that you helped me. If that's so, then I thank you."

  Holy Mother, what was she doing, chatting up a god?

  On the other hand, her gran always said good manners cost nothing and were usually appreciated.

  "I'm very glad you came along. But you're probably a bit busy . . . so if the storm's over could you drop me off where I belong? I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. Any old place will do for me."

  The eye withdrew out of range of her light.

  After a few moments' wait, she grew curious enough to push over to investigate. It was amazing how quickly she'd gotten used to floating like this, almost like swimming, but you didn't have to worry about drowning.

  Or not . . . there's different ways of going without air. She hoped her hollow wasn't completely air tight. Otherwise she'd have to depend on the big fellow outside to remember to let in fresh air when she needed it. Like now.

  Peering through the long opening, she played the torch beam around. It ran out of light before the ambient area ran out of darkness. She squirmed partially over the bulk of one coil, trusting the creature would hold itself steady and not squeeze her in two. There, torso out, arse in, like hanging from a Dutch door. Up, down, in, out with the beam. No end to the dark, no structures, no ground, this must be what they mean by infinite . . . wait—a glimmer of something there, far, far above. It was big, ocean big, filled all that part of the sky. If that was sky.

  If that was ocean. Maybe, but it was either way over her head, or she was suspended upside down, which did not mean very much here. So if there was no gravity, how was it the water stayed in place? How was it they stayed in place?

  "This is very interesting, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing. You trying to tell me there's no landing pads about?"

  Sharon sensed rather than saw the great head looming next to her. Hesitantly, she spared it a sideways glance. Yes, very big. Might have even grown some since the brawl with Rivers. She could stand upright in its yawning mouth, stretch high, and still not touch the top of it.

  Oh, what a remarkably bad mental picture to conjure up.

  For all that, she was almost getting used to its presence. Make that Presence. She'd met a few film stars who had it going for them. Theirs was nothing compared to this fellow's impact. No wonder he had the ancient natives building bloody great temples to him in the heat and humidity.

  Bloody. All those poor bastards with their hearts cut out jolly with a knife. Another bad mental picture. She had to stop doing that.

  Something flashed past the torch beam, positively rocketing by, with an aggressive organic hum. It provoked a reaction from Kukulcan, who swung his heavy head in that direction, the jaws going wide.

  She played the beam all over, trying to see what it was, then it occurred to her, as a seeming earthquake—snakequake?—shuddered through the god's body, that she would be safer inside than out. Hastily, she wriggled back, retreating as best she could. Hard to find purchase, and it was too easy to catch a scrape if she rubbed the wrong way against the scales.

  There, ouch, nothing too painful—

  Then something slammed noisily against the serpent, and her hollow ball chamber lurched in reaction. She got the barest, fastest glimpse of wings, massive sectional body, claws, eye clusters, and insectoid mandibles. Her mind translated it as a cross between a spider and wasp, bigger than an elephant, which was the only reason it hadn't achieved an entry. The mouth part extended outward, snapping, a long thin tongue shot clear, whipping rapidly all over, seeking. It flicked past her arm and a stray drop of clear fluid flew off, landing on the back of her wrist. Sticky, it was sticky as—God, if that thing touched her and got a good grip . . . no place to hide, no cover, no weapons . . .

  She hadn't the breath to summon a scream, and by the time she did, the being vanished. Not as in going invisible, but as in being yanked suddenly away.

  Outside there was considerable violent movement and commotion along with a nasty hissing sound like a very large tire venting an air leak. Heart beating fit to burst, she went low toward the opening, aiming her light with a shaking hand.

  She definitely had the catbird seat for the battle, such as it was. Kukulcan had the—well, call it a bug for want of anything better—headfirst in his mouth. The evolution-gone-right-out-the-window thing was making a mighty struggle: clawing, hissing, and probably biting, but the serpent's inwardly curved fangs prevented it from escape. The only way out was through, which was via a gigantic digestive tract.

  It was strangely fascinating, like watching a train wreck. Come to think of it, the sizes were on the same scale.

  Down the bug went, flailin
g all the way. One of its wings snapped off and floated into the darkness, spinning slowly, streaming black fluid. Very educational, in fact, that was much more information than she ever wanted to know about the workings of its anatomy.

  Kukulcan finished the last of it, and she followed the progress of the elephant-sized bulge as it advanced past the feathered crest on its trip down the long gullet.

  After-dinner mint, anyone?

  She hoped that wouldn't be herself.

  The serpent god stared long at her, then the head swung away toward the seeming water above. She followed its gaze.

  "Ah—I get you now," she whispered. "I'll just wait inside out of the way, all right? Thanks for the peek. Look after yourself."

  She slid quickly in and the long opening sealed tight shut again, enclosing her. She was ready to kiss the scales in gratitude and relief. Good thing she was floating because her knees would have buckled. Was it possible to faint in zero-gravity? She might be the first to find out.

  The "water" above them, all that movement, large as an ocean, was composed of a swarm of those overgrown bugs. One of them must have noticed her light and come diving in to investigate. Lucky her, bad luck for it.

  Time to sit tight and try to work up some way out for them both, because Sharon didn't think even Kukulcan could eat that many of them in a sitting.

  Chapter Seven

  Toronto, the Present

  Bourland concluded his interview with the tall, angular man, shook hands, and bent to peck the woman affectionately on one cheek. From his vantage by the waiting room, Richard read his lips: "Good luck and take care." They moved off toward the elevators.

  He hoped they'd take care, that the woman paid attention to his warning, remembered it if they—

  Bourland paused on his way back to look through the glass inset on the ICU doors and remained there. Richard joined him. There was activity by Sabra's bed, a doctor and nurse, studying the clipboard, not the patient.

  "It's all right," Richard said. "Routine check. I've seen them do it a dozen times over."

  Bourland relaxed, but not by much. "I wish . . ." But he didn't finish.

  "I know you do. Come and tell me the latest. Let them get on with their job."

  He sighed and followed Richard to the room, where they resumed their chosen seats. This time Richard sat rather than reclined to keep himself awake.

  "About that psychic group . . . ?"

  Bourland raised a brief smile. "They're off to whatever. I doubt anything will come of it, but I want to cover everything."

  "Will they be talking to Michael?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "Good, because I didn't mention him."

  "Neither did I. Nothing on his phasing out, either. That lot would have him in a lab with wires stuck to his head; no, I'm not putting the boy through such nonsense. They can bumble along without his participation."

  "You don't seem to have much confidence in them."

  "Actually I do so far as the scientific aspect is concerned. But when the hard edge of the universe I know blurs and drifts sideways into the paranormal stuff . . ." Bourland shrugged. "It's rather removed from my usual round. They're all top-notch scientists and researchers, with more PhDs than MIT, but running about with magnetometers trying to find ghosts and decode crop circles? On the other hand one can't expect much, considering the subject matter."

  "Too elusive?"

  "Yes. But I can't ignore this. Not with what's going on with Michael."

  "There's something else you can look into, if possible." Richard said. "And it's concrete, in the hard edge."

  "Name it. Please."

  "Find out what flights left from the Yucatán today. There must be videos of everyone who passed through customs, there and overseas. I want a look at all the departing and arriving male passengers." That man-thing might have a presence on this Side, and if so, then he was traceable. Of course, there was no guarantee Richard would recognize his human form, but he possessed a better insight than most for it.

  Bourland's eyes went wide at the enormity of the task. "All the flights?"

  "Connecting ones as well. Whoever was in Chichén Itzá last night and left today, I want to know who it is. You can narrow things down to cross-referencing the names with arriving Toronto flights at first, give them priority. After what happened here, I was thinking . . ."

  "A connection to the accident?"

  "Maybe." Sabra said that distance meant nothing in Otherside matters, but the force that caused the storm might well be in the area. That's why he'd been at watch over her. In case it returned. That Michael hadn't had any visions since was very reassuring though. "And see if you can track Sharon Geary from there, too."

  "Sharon? What's she to do with this?"

  He'd forgotten that Bourland might not have recognized her in the vision, having only met her once, way back when. He explained she'd been the one thrown from the pyramid and taken in midair by the flying serpent.

  "You're sure it was Sharon?"

  "I'm sure. Already gave the name to that young woman who left. Sharon was at Stonehenge the day before, and Michael had his episode then, the one you recorded. Sharon must have seen something there because the next thing she's suddenly on a flight to Cancún."

  "How'd you get that?"

  "I've a friend at Scotland Yard who owed me a favor. I'm thinking that she saw something, or particularly someone, and followed him. If you can find out what she did and where she went once she arrived in Cancún—I don't know how helpful it might be, but—"

  "Right. That kind of intel-gathering is outside my department, but I know some specialists with the resources to crunch massive amounts of data very fast."

  Richard rather thought he would.

  "Tracing people is their bread and butter, but this won't be easy." Bourland got on his cell phone. The call took some time, first to get through and then to explain the urgency. Next he stared at his phone as though it had just made an insulting noise. He closed it, snorting. "They'll call me back once they've set up a secure whatever-it-is."

  "Who are they?"

  He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not allowed to say. Part of my work. Official secrets business."

  "Oh. That lot." There was one in every country, each with varying degrees of competency.

  "Yes, they don't exist."

  "Even to each other."

  "Especially each other. Seriously, they're a scary bunch, very full of themselves, but damned efficient when they have to be. I'll make sure they have to be. I'll probably catch hell for using them, but bugger that. Who's to say this isn't an international terrorist plot?"

  "Whatever it is." Richard rubbed his face again. It was still there, along with the start of a beard. His eyes felt gritty, the lids puffed. If he'd been human he rather thought he'd have a bomb of a headache by now.

  Bourland saw and went sympathetic. "Listen, you've been here all day and need a break."

  "But I—"

  "No. Not an option. I don't care where you go, sleep in the car park downstairs if you like, but get out of here for a few hours. For your own good. And hers."

  Richard had accomplished the blood exchange. It would work or not, so there was no reason he couldn't leave for a little while.

  "I've exhausted all my distractions," said Bourland. "I need to be here. Besides, that party I called won't show themselves until you've gone."

  "Skittish are they?"

  He nodded. "Paranoid as hell."

  "I'll pick up some things and go over to your place, keep an eye on Michael."

  "And rest."

  "All right if I borrow your computer?"

  "That's not resting."

  "Ten minutes. Research."

  "Right, I know how that goes, follow one thread and before you know it the whole night's gone by. You'll want the password to open the desktop, but after that the Internet access is open, anything in the files requires more passwords."

  "Canadian state secrets are safe fr
om me. The recording you made is all I need. I'd like to see that again."

  "Brave man. It's not locked up, just hit 'play' on the DVD; the disk is still inside. Hold out your hand." Bourland wrote down a series of nonsequential letters and numbers on Richard's left palm with a felt tip. "Wash that off when you've learned it."

  "What? You've not picked the name or birth date of a loved one?"

  "I'm not an idiot. This is harder to memorize but more secure." He gave back the Land Rover keys. "Michael wants to be here first thing in the morning, but see to it he eats. Don't overlook yourself for that, either. I think you've been living on air all day."

  They left the room together, Bourland going into the ICU to sit with Sabra, Richard continuing to the elevators. He checked his coat pocket for his cell, though he knew it would be there. Nerves showing. It was a wrench leaving her, but she was being watched over, and at any given time he'd be only a quarter hour away.

  Bourland had parked within a few places of where they'd screamed in that morning. It felt like days had passed since then. Richard gulped down cold outside air, grateful for the change. He'd be back before dawn, though.

  He slipped into the seat, his body adjusting better to its more comfortable confines than the hospital chair, and went through the routine of starting the vehicle and driving off. St. Michael's stood right on Queen Street; he turned left and sped away as fast as the lights would allow. The streets were still wet, but a full day's worth of traffic had cleared away much of the slick ice.

  Another hour or even half hour, and that wide patch of ice across the highway might have been broken down. Would it have made any difference to Sabra if she'd waited? Probably not. That wind. That bloody Otherside wind had been the culprit. Who had sent it? Why?

  He tried—again—to block out the memory of her panicked face as she'd passed him, fighting the wheel, slamming the brakes . . .

  He was forced to hit his own as some fool darted in front of him and revved away, leaving blue exhaust behind like a parting taunt. He let the annoyance distract him until he reached Neville Park and went right.