Dragon's Teeth

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Ain’t this grand adventure we’re all on just one big potential suicide mission, though? We all gotta die sometime, kiddo. An’ sometimes . . . we gotta let some folks die to save others.” John looked away from the TV, finishing his beer in a long draught.

  “And I don’t have to like it, and I aim to prevent it where and when I can.”

  “Y’know somethin’ that just struck me ’bout those damned Eagles and Wolves? They aren’t nearly as effective as the rest of Thulian arsenal, ’cept for one task.”

  “Bet I can guess, but tell me.”

  “Terror weapons. Power armor suits, flying death orbs an’ whatnot are frightenin’ enough. But those robots are just goddamned scary on a primordial, primitive level.” He shook his head, taking another swig of his beer. “Imagine a pack or a flight of those things bearin’ down on ya.”

  “That was my thought when I saw them. And think of the intimidation factor in a parade, or standing bodyguard over a leader.” He could hear Vickie typing over the link. A second later, in a little window, was a photoshopped image of Hitler with a wolf at either hand and an eagle above him.

  Got to hand it to the Kriegers, they know ’bout presentation.

  Another window opened and dossiers of CCCP members appeared in tabs across the top. “Your team. Saviour has you on command on this one.”

  “Oh? She couldn’t have been too happy ’bout that one. You an’ Blue blackmail ’er or somethin’?”

  “Unter pointed out how no one else could pass as a Murkan. So I hear.”

  “Giorgi must be goin’ soft in his old age. I’ll get caught up on all of ’em in a bit. I’d offer ya a beer, ’cept I don’t think y’can work teleportation—wait, can you?”

  “Yes, within reason. Only in my case there’s no ‘tele’ about it. It’s magic and not psionic, it’s called ‘apporting’ and I need a landing strip. In other words, I need a prepared area where I’m sending things or they tend to end up as a smear on the floor. I can bring stuff to me safely enough, it’s sending them off that’s hard.” She chuckled. “But I don’t need your beer, thanks. Sorry about the generic brand, it was all I could get the hotel to stock. But I found a package store that makes deliveries, so say when you want one and I’ll have ’em bring up a case of Guinness and some wodka for the comrades later.”

  “Much obliged.” John continued to scan the files and information that Vickie was sending him, but his mind was elsewhere. She really is a friggin’ witch. If she can do all of this, just with a computer and some hand waving and chanting . . . what does she know about me, without even breaking a sweat?

  “You do realize that in magic, it’s TANSTAFL, right?”

  “There Ain’t No Such Thing As a Free Lunch?” Girl knows her Heinlein.

  “Da tovarisch. I go through a lot of calories. I build up a bunch of magical batteries to use in an emergency.”

  “Kind of the same thing that happens with Blueberry with her meta-healin’, right? All the energy has to come from somewhere.”

  “Exact-a-mundo. Very big bad stuff means I better have reserves. VERY big bad stuff means I may need backup.” She sighed. “So far, that is what makes the computer stuff work so well. Don’t need a lot of energy to move electrons around. It’s amazing what you can do when you know the math. Like . . . OK, look at this—”

  A new window opened; it was a DoD document with about ninety percent of it blacked out. “You can get that via Freedom of Information. Real useful, right?” The sarcasm was thick.

  “Only math I was ever really good at involved calculating bullet weight and drop, but I think I follow what you’re sayin.’” He scanned through the large blocks of black, only picking out some inconsequential words and bits that gave nothing away. “Yeah, right. There’s a ‘but’ here, right?”

  “You bet. Oh, this is the doc on our dear departed friend the ‘Echo Janitor.’ Now what I can do, since I know the math, is I can tell the image I have in my computer, ‘Become what you used to look like before they blacked out all that stuff.’ Watch and learn.” Slowly, letters, words, resolved out of the black, as if the ink was dissolving away. “I can do this with a real document too, but on the computer image it costs less in energy because I am moving a few electrons, not actual ink.”

  “So, the image and the original hard-copy are connected, then? I’m still confused by this crazy stuff.”

  “Laws of Similarity and Contagion. The Law of Similarity says ‘If A looks like B, I can make it act like B’; Law of Contagion says ‘If A was ever in contact with B, I can make either one look like the other and affect the other.’ Both of those are what make voudoun dolls work.”

  “Christ, voodoo is real, too?”

  “One of the more effective real-world magics. Djinni, Bull and I just recruited a voudoun houngan from New Orleans.”

  “I don’t know what that is, but anyways. With the effects of these two laws, you can get into a lot of places and see a lot of things that folks don’t want others to see. Corporate espionage made easy, research files, government dossiers . . .”

  “Very true, o wolves. Howsomever, there are not too many people who do what I do. I only know of me for certain, actually. At least, on the good-guy side. Most magicians make tech go all wonky.” There were more typing sounds. “Even my folks don’t do this for the FBI. Mom is a standard witch and glitches probability, Dad is a werewolf, which makes him great for passing as a guard dog.”

  Werewolves, too? Hell, an’ here I thought I had a decent handle on how the world was, even with Kriegers blowin’ it to hell.

  “There just aren’t a lot of magicians around, way fewer than people with powers. But we’ve been around a long, long time. Anyway . . .” The window with the document closed. “That’s part of what I can do.” There was a long . . . a very long . . . pause. “I have mentioned a time or two that I am paranoid right?”

  “You? Never!” John imagined Vickie wishing for a few busts of The Heroes of the War of Northern Aggression to throw at his head right then. “Paranoia is just heightened awareness of danger, t’me. I assume Blue gave you enough of a rundown on how much runnin’ around I’ve done the past few years.”

  “Ah . . . er . . . uh . . .” Another long pause. Then, in a very small voice, “I’ve got more. On you.”

  John’s blood turned to ice in his veins, but he did his best to sound casual. “Oh? Well, all the good stuff is fabrications and all the bad rumors are true.” He took a sip of his beer, hardly tasting it as he waited for her to continue.

  “So, you really turned down the head cheerleader for the Senior Prom?” A note on the page of his senior yearbook opened in a new window. “You made a good-looking sergeant.” What looked like his entire Army file took its place.

  “I still would.”

  “And then there was the ‘little accident’ they arranged for your squad in Panama.”

  Another redacted file replaced the Army file, and the black dissolved away from the words.

  “So that was how they got you into that secret program of theirs. I dunno why they picked you out of the rest for that . . . but I can prolly find out if I keep digging. There’s a block on a lot of stuff.” She sounded a little annoyed, maybe disconcerted. “I’m better than their blocker, it’s pretty brute-force stuff, I just need to be careful and sneaky and finesse it. I can get past it if I work at it long enough, but I kinda have had a lot on my plate.”

  “I would’ve thought you’d know already. Seems like the rest of my history is an open book to ya, kiddo.”

  “Well . . . it could be. It took me a long time to dig out this file. That blocker again.” The cursor hovered over the window she had just brought up. “A lot of stuff isn’t in computers, or is in computers it’s harder for me to crack. I only just got this one before Tesla was murdered.” Another sigh. “How angry at me are you?”

  “Not very. Can’t blame ya for lookin’ in on someone that you’re doin’ Overwatch for. Much.”

  “K
nowledge is a shield. The more I know . . . the more I can shield myself. Or you.” The cursor continued to hover. “You want to read this? You want me to stop digging, or keep going?”

  John shook his head. “Don’t need to read it. I went through it, one day at a time. Keep diggin’. Never know, might find something I can use.”

  “That’s a good part of why I’d do it, Johnny. If they get hold of you again, I want to know how to crack you out.”

  “So, have you told me everythin’ y’know ’bout . . . well, shit, me?”

  “I can send a full file copy with the Commies. Or you can read it onscreen.”

  “Don’t send it with the team.”

  A folder icon popped up in the corner. “At your leisure. But once you close this connection if you want to look at it again you’ll have to ping me. That’s a link, not a copy. None of the things I’m passing to you are actually on the hotel net.”

  John scanned the beginning of the first file. It was an operational report; the status listed it as a failure. It was dated for five years ago, and the location was Albuquerque—

  Retrieval: Subject 371 Project Metamorphosis. John Murdock. Status: Failure. Subject neutralized agents and escaped . . .

  —New Mexico. John was lost in the desert, somewhere in New Mexico. He had no supplies, no water, and didn’t know how far away from civilization he was. His clothes were tattered and burned; it was night time, and the temperature had plunged as soon as the sun went down. He was trained to survive in extreme situations, but between the drugs coursing through his system and the state of shock he was in, he could hardly think. I think I might die out here. That’s a laugh. Get away, and turn into buzzard food. The Invisible Man in the Sky has a helluva sense of humor for someone who doesn’t exist. If I do die, at least I won’t do it at the hands of those murdering bastards. John felt the bile rise in his throat, dizzied by the sudden flare of emotion. After what seemed like hours, the sensation passed. Everything was blurring together. The chattering of his teeth, the pain in his shoeless and bleeding feet, even the cuts and burns that covered most of his exposed skin.

  There was a moon, a full moon. It rose, fat and cold, over the mountains. It stared blankly down on him, as indifferent as the eyes of those “doctors” that had done such terrible things to him, to all of them.

  More blurred time. The moon was higher. And he heard the sound of a motor. An engine.

  The crazy impulse surged through him to bash his head out on a rock, to immolate himself, to do anything to kill himself. Suicide was a better option than being taken back. And they would surely want him back. He was too expensive to just let die. After what he’d done? More than ever. He was too tired to fight, and too tired to try to kill himself. Instead, he just collapsed onto his hands and knees, silhouetted by the sudden flash of a vehicle’s headlights.

  He expected to hear barked orders, see the glint of the moonlight or the glaring headlights off the barrels of weapons. Instead he heard a stream of profanity. Then “Buddy—are you from Alpha Centauri?” John craned his head upwards with an effort to see the driver. It was a man, late 50s to early 60s. He had a crazy beard, with hair flowing out from a straw hat all the way down to his shoulders. A Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals completed the picture. “Oh man . . . you look like hell, what’d they do to ya? They been interrogatin’ ya? Torturin’ ya?”

  “Somethin’ like that,” was all that John could manage to croak out. He lifted a hand up towards the driver.

  The fellow grasped it, then took him by the elbow, and helped him to his feet. “We gotta get ya outa here. The MIBs’ll be here any minute. Dontcha worry, I won’t let ’em take ya back.” The man half-carried John to the passenger side of the vehicle; it was an old Jeep, and despite its age was in fairly good condition with almost no rust. “You know, you’re lucky I found you when I did. This desert can swallow people whole, especially this far out. Only reason why I came around this part was the big fire to the east. Big ol’ jets of fire, huge columns of it shooting up into the sky like volcanoes erupting! Was that you?”

  John shook his head wearily, pointing to a canteen on the dash. “I don’t know what it was. I just remember guys in suits and them takin’ me somewhere.”

  The man handed him the canteen without a moment of hesitation. “It’s electrolyte solution, you prolly need it. Black suits and black shades, right? What’d they pick ya up for?”

  John drank greedily from the canteen, gasping for breath long enough to say, “My good looks.”

  The man cackled, and shoved the 4-by in gear. He turned off his headlights. “You musta seen somethin’. UFO?” He pronounced it “you-foe.” “Landing? Close encounter? Third kind? Lizard men? Or the Grays? You gotta watch them Grays, man, the lizard men’ll only dissect ya, the Grays . . . they got . . . probes.”

  “I don’t know the why, pal. Just that I don’t wanna go back.” John did his best to keep his seat as the Jeep rolled over the bumps and rocks. “What’s your name?”

  “We don’t use names, man. Safer. Ya can call me Sandman.”

  “Right. I owe ya, ‘Sandman’. I was as good as dead out here.”

  “You ain’t lyin’. MIBs count on the desert t’kill anything that tries to get close or get away. Ya gotta have good survival trainin’ t’be out here.”

  “In my condition, I don’t think there’s much that trainin’ could have done.” He shook his head, then changed the subject. “Where are we headed? Anywhere but here is good enough for right now, but I’m the curious sort.” His wits were starting to come back to him now that he had hydrated and was at least momentarily safe.

  “Ya done with that canteen? There’s ’nother under your seat, an’ a baggie fulla meal bars. We’re headin’ fer Albuquerque, but I’m gonna drop ya at the edge. Well, first we’re gonna make a stop where the Black Helicopters can’t spot us, I’m gonna get the kit, and you’re gonna patch yerself up and take a spare shirt an’ pair of pants. An’ shoes. Then I’m gonna loan ya one-a my spare bikes an’ ya can pedal yer way into town.”

  “You’re a saint, Sandman. I don’t know how I can repay ya. In fact, you helpin’ me might’ve been the start of some trouble for ya. The worst kind.”

  Sandman cackled again. “Put yer hand on the outside of the Jeep door.”

  John did. The surface felt . . . odd.

  “Stealth paint. I don’t show up on radar, man. ’Struth. Mighty Wing’s gotta Corvette he stealthed with the stuff, he makes runs at a hunnert-ten an’ the cops never tag him. An’ I ain’t gonna say nothin’ about this on the net, man. Two peeps can share a secret, three, and it ain’t a secret no more. Right?” Sandman cast him a sly look. “Yer my secret. I helped one-a the MIBs, prisoners! I bin hopin’ fer somethin’ like this fer twenty years!” His grin showed white in the moonlight.

  For the first time in what felt like years, John smiled, and then slept. He woke only briefly, when the Sandman stopped somewhere dark and gave him old, clean clothing and loaded a bicycle into the back. Then he slept again.

  It felt like John slept for years; entirely too long, and not long enough at the same time. The only thing he saw was fire and blood in his dreams; he woke up to Sandman shaking him awake.

  “OK, brother. I took the route ’round Robin Hood’s barn, just, ya know, to be sure. We were south of ABQ in case ya didn’t know, I went west and north and around and we’re on the south side of 40 right now, on Central.” He cackled a little. “They call this the ‘war zone.’ You can prolly tell.”

  Tattoo parlor, Vietnamese restaurant, pawn shop, beauty parlor, all in the same tiny strip mall, all burglar-grilled except for the tattoo parlor, which was open. Gas station with bars on the cash box. Burger joint, taco joint, Mexican grocery, all closed at this late an hour, all with cages.

  “I can drop you about anywhere along here with the bike, you can bike straight up Central to the Uni, and get public transport there.”

  “This is pretty close to where I need
to be. I still can’t tell ya how much I owe ya, Sandman. You’re doin’ me a solid.” John looked at the bike in the backseat. “Don’t think I’ll have a chance to get your bike back to ya, unfortunately.”

  “I get ’em cheap at cop auctions. There’s always another twenty-buck bike out there.” Sandman shrugged.

  “Let’s pull off into an alley. Better if I get out that way than out here in the open.”

  Sandman took a right at the next corner and pulled into—well it wasn’t an alley; it appeared that Albuquerque didn’t exactly have alleys, but it was behind another strip mall where dumpsters were lined up, smelling of things best forgotten.

  “Here’s as good as it gets, brother,” Sandman said, a little wistfully. “I kinda wish you could tell me more, but hey, probable deniablity right?”

  “Safer this way, compadre.” John hefted the bicycle out of the back of the vehicle, then held out his hand to Sandman. “Time for me to go.”

  Sandman shook it heartily. He had a good handshake. “Safe journeys, brother.”

  “I like that. Safe journeys to you, Sandman.” John grinned lopsidedly. He wished that he could do more to show his appreciation, but time was against them both.

  Sandman reached into his back pocket and stuffed something into the breast pocket of the vest John was wearing. “Stopped on the way, you were out and didn’t wake up. Figure you can use this.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he waved, gunned the engine, and drove off. John reached into his pocket, and was surprised to find a wad of hundreds in his hand. There was a small bit of metal sandwiched in the cash, about as big as a large button. It was a scorched and tarnished badge in the shape of a star, red with a golden hammer and sickle in the middle. Now what in the hell would he give me this for?