Not the sort of thing to be cluttering his mind with just now. They had business to attend to. The target had been spotted, and it was time to start the operation. He and Pankhurst cut across on Orange Street and headed for the second entrance to the building where V. Price, Antiquarian Bookseller, was located. Linkwater was already inside, and at Holger's signal, he entered V. Price, ostensibly to browse.
As he walked up the stairs from street level, Holger noted again the bronze plaque proclaiming the building to be the oldest covered mall in the country. That might be so, but it had only the faintest resemblance to what he would call a mall, being a narrow building only stretching the width of a single city block. Times had changed for the commercial world, they would soon change for their target.
Like good citizens, he and Pankhurst nodded when the rentacop informed them that the gate would be closing in fifteen minutes. The guard had already unlocked the storage cylinder that held the folding Secure-M™ mesh screen designed to seal the entrance. The management didn't allow streetlife inside and made a sweep to clear any out before locking up for the day.
The team would be done with its business before that happened.
Pankhurst split off just inside the arch, headed for the interior stairwell. The building had elevators, masterpieces of vintage tech, but they only ran on holidays and special occasions. Holger walked down the main gallery, feigning occasional interest in shop displays. He didn't look up toward V. Price; he didn't need to, having memorized all the pertinent details.
There were three tiers of public space, the main floor and two upper-level galleries, each set back slightly from the one below it. Only the main floor and the first gallery had commercial establishments, the rest being offices and already closed for the day. The upper levels were not full floors like llie main one but simply something akin to glorified balconies, barely more than the width of the sidewalks outside and bounded by metal railings scabby with peeling paint, liach end had a crossover and access to a stairwell. He started up the stairwell on the far side from where he had entered, the one the target would have used.
He stopped a step short of the landing, in the sheltering gloom of the stairwell. Not that the open areas were well lit. Originally, the structure had relied on skylights roofing the atrium to let in light, but the ancient frosted panes had been replaced by Glowsheet™. Now those retrofits were old and lacked the brilliance preferred by viable shopping establishments. Atmospheric, claimed the mall's PR flacks, but their cheery hype was doing little to keep the mall viable. V. Price was one of the few shops still attempting to operate beyond midafternoon and the departure of the lunchtime shopping clientele.
All very suitable for what they had in mind.
He waited. Pankhurst waited too, in the opposite stairwell. There were no shoppers to disturb them. Very suitable.
A buzz behind Holger's ear told him that their target was about to leave the shop. Linkwater was activating the next step in the operation. Phones started ringing in the establishments that were still open. The computer agents placing the calls weren't bright, but they had enough sophistication to occupy the call recipients for a few minutes, and would keep any shopkeeper's attention focused inside their establishments. Linkwater himself would distract the staff of the bookstore. The timing was good; the only person in sight was a late departure headed for the stairwell on the upper level of the opposite side of the building. She would be out of sight in seconds.
The door of the bookstore opened and the target emerged, a brown paper package under one arm. They'd had no way to predict which way she would elect to exit, so both he and Pankhurst were prepared to make contact. He tugged on his glove, triggering the mechanism and exposing the prick needles. The needles carried a soporific, not enough to put the target out, but enough to make her tractable.
The target turned and headed toward Pankhurst, who had already started out to meet her. Holger, now cast in the support role, moved out to do his job. Pankhurst stopped ten feet from the target and addressed her.
"Good evening, Dr. Spae."
Having a stranger identify her by name had the predictable effect. She halted, hesitant.
Hearing her name spoken had an effect on Holger, too. Something wasn't right. He stopped. Spae. Her name. A person's name. She stood before him, a real person. The image jostled his thoughts. She was real. The safe appellation of "target" no longer applied.
"I'm from the Department, Doctor," Pankhurst said. "We want you back."
Spae took a step backward. Her head swung around. She would be looking to see how trapped she was. She noted him and looked past him. At the stairs. He was between her and the nearest stairs. She looked back at Pankhurst. "Suppose I don't want to go."
"Your wishes are irrelevant in this matter. Your return is not optional."
"Meaning?"
Pankhurst smiled, not a very reassuring smile. "Meaning it would be better for you to cooperate."
"Or what? You club me over the head and drag me back by my hair? That kind of Neanderthal thinking is why I left."
She swung her walking stick up, toward Pankhurst's crotch. He skipped back, out of range. Spae spun on her heels and started toward Holger. The target was attempting escape. He moved to block her path. His action had been anticipated. Blue fire started to burn along her stick.
Holger came up short. His memory flickered. He had seen
something like that flame-wreathed walking staff before. flickering flames danced before his eyes. Blasting. Flames reaching out—
Enemy!
Yes, blasting an enemy, that was what he remembered.
She is enemy!
He saw arcane fire, reaching out. Blasting. Blasting ...
Him! She would kill him!
No! Blasting a thing that was tormenting him, wanting to kill him.
His head was full to bursting with conflicting images.
Fire! Hate the enemy, the enemy hates you. No, helping him. Target. Enemy. Spae. Helping him.
He staggered under the onslaught.
The railing caught him hard in the stomach. He folded over it. The floor seemed very close, the tiles spinning before him. He felt as if he were falling, but he could still feel the i ailing hard against his belly. He closed his eyes, trying to force the vertigo away. His head spun. He gripped the rail, feeling helpless. Visions of blue, blasting flame filled his head.
Why hadn't she struck?
"Kun?"
Her voice. Concerned. That made no sense.
She is enemy! Spae is target!
He forced his head around and looked at her. She was shaking her head, disbelief, concern, and other less identifiable emotions crossing her face.
"It really is you." She stared at him, her eyes deep and probing. He felt naked before that gaze. "My God, Kun. What have they done to you?"
Confused.
She is enemy!
She had helped him, saved him.
Pankhurst was behind her. He had drawn his weapon. No, it wasn't his weapon; Pankhurst carried a standard-issue
Glock. The weapon he was aiming was an Arisaka Enforcer™. Holger hadn't known Pankhurst was carrying one.
Something was wrong. Damn, he wished he was thinking more clearly. Somehow, somewhere, this woman had saved Holger. The memories weren't clear, but they were real. He couldn't let her be shot in the back.
He threw his arm up, sweeping Spae down out of the way. Move! Fire lit the Arisaka's barrel. Holger's shoulder exploded in pain.
Pankhurst cursed. "I told them you should have been trashed as a bad job."
The slide of Pankhurst's weapon locked down, another round chambered. Holger surged across the walkway. The Enforcer's muzzle followed, Pankhurst's trigger finger tightened. The second shot missed.
Holger knew an enemy when one was shooting at him.
He dived for the wall. He pulled his Glock, setting the weapon's selector as he did. Pankhurst fired again, missed again. Holger was shifting too fast for him. Holg
er squeezed his trigger, aiming low, below the skirts of Pankhurst's ballistic cloth coat. He let the magazine empty in a spread. Pankhurst screamed as at least one bullet took him in the leg. He went down.
But he wasn't out.
Holger was up and on Pankhurst before the man could bring his weapon back to bear. Holger's left hand closed on the barrel. It was hot. With a single twist of his torso, he ripped the pistol from Pankhurst's grip and slammed a knife-hand into the man's chest. Pankhurst's finger bone and sternum cracked almost in unison.
Threat neutralized.
Holger was breathing hard, almost panting. It wasn't from exertion. If Pankhurst had turned on him, then—
Linkwater appeared in the doorway of V. Price, weapon in hand.
Holger didn't give him time to take in the situation. Using Pankhurst's pistol, he shot Linkwater. Three shots, no fi-nesse. Linkwater slid down against the door frame, smearing it with blood and brains.
Threat neutralized.
Holger was still breathing hard. Spae looked up at him from where she had fallen when he pushed her out of the way of Pankhurst's shot. He could see fear in her eyes. Uncertainty too. She wasn't sure what he would do next. He wasn't sure either.
He knew he had just killed one man, possibly a second, to •.ave her—or was it to save himself?—and still, every time lie looked at her, he thought enemy. And just as surely knew that such thoughts were wrong. Men with laser scalpels were •licing his brains into tiny fragments.
"Get out of here," he told her. Whether for her sake or his, he didn't know. "Now!"
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine." Like hell. The voice in his head was still screaming that she was enemy. "Go. The authorities will be here soon. You don't want to be here when they arrive."
Or when I start listening to the voice.
"Come with me," she said.
"That wouldn't be advisable."
Enemy!
Not! Not enemy! Not!
"You can't go back to them now," she told him.
Back to the Department? No, he was finished there, no matter what he did next.
Dr. Spae made no move to leave.
Alternate solution.
Eliminate threat.
No!
He vaulted the railing. It wasn't that far to drop. He landed, rolled, and came up running. Straight out into the gathering night.
CHAPTER
17
John didn't have to open his eyes to know that he was back in the sunlit world. He could smell and hear it. The peculiar mix of stale urine, garbage, vehicle exhaust, chemical stink, and other noxious stuff was like nothing he'd ever smelled in the otherworld. The sounds were characteristic too: sirens, the whine of distant traffic, drifting notes of a dozen clashing entertainment modes, the buzz and sputter of a failing streetlight. All very familiar.
He remembered running away from the keep, burning with the need to be elsewhere, anywhere. He could guess what had happened. That desire had wrapped itself around his motion, unconsciously—or maybe not—taking him across the harrier between the worlds. Such transitions weren't free, and the crossover had taken all the energy he had left. He must have collapsed on reaching the sunlit world. He still wasn't quite back to himself. »
He was lying on his back, which hurt like hell, and not just from the jagged roughness of whatever he was lying on. From the pressure he felt, he was half buried in noxious debris. Just another piece of discarded trash.
But he wasn't alone. Someone was pulling his leg. Fingers fumbled at the lacings of his boot.
"Come on, ya stinkin' stiff, ya ain't got no more use for these. Leggo!"
He was being rolled. John didn't like that. He didn't like it at all. He coiled his other leg and lashed out, aiming for
where he guessed the face of his molester to be. He connected. Solidly. There was a cry of pain and the hands left him.
Batting away the debris covering him, John struggled to his feet. He could hear the scavenger doing the same. John was faster. Looming above the still crouching figure of the sprawl scut, he looked down at a man who looked every bit as scuzzy as he smelled. The mook's expression was somewhere between fear and surprise, but his eyes glittered like a trapped rat's.
"You're one a them Proper Order freaks." He was panting, clearly letting fear take the upper hand.
"I don't know what you're talking about," John told him truthfully.
"Well, you ain't gonna get me." The man snarled, showing yellowed, rotted teeth. He backed his statement by producing a knife from beneath his coat. He waved it around, letting it flash in the light. It looked very long, pointed, and sharp.
The sight of the knife didn't intimidate John as it was apparently meant to do. It infuriated him. Who the hell did this mook think he was? John gave him the boot he'd been after, toe right under his chin. The sprawl scut went over backward, his knife glittering off into the dark. This time, he stayed down.
John nearly went down too. His back was on fire. The kick had stressed his back injury. His back had been badly abraded against the keep's crenellations. Shreds of his doublet were stuck in the scabbing, slimy mess. He managed to get the doublet off without aggravating the wound too badly. Most of the garment's back was shredded. The doublet had been a present from Fraoch and now it was ruined.
Like so much else.
He'd get something out of his relationship with the bitch elf. Tearing the doublet's remains into strips, he wished it were Fraoch he was tearing into. She'd used him, playing him like the proverbial fiddle for the pleasure of her master Shahotain. And Shahotain—
God, what a blind idiot John had been.
At least he was quit of the otherworld.
Though where exactly he was, he wasn't sure. He stood in the middle of a city block's worth of rubble. He could see a fence of panels and posts bounding the area, walling the vacant lot away from the neighborhood around it. Scattered mounds of trash and garbage and junk and drug debris—lots of drug debris—were evidence that this area had been used as a disposal area. Still was, to judge by the ripeness of some of the garbage and the talus slopes of anonymous dark plastic bags against the fence. A prefab hut of the type common to construction sites crouched in one corner of the lot.
Beyond the fence he could see buildings, most dark, but some were showing light that proclaimed that they were still inhabited despite their derelict appearance. Some of the others had the squatters-owned look with boarded over windows from which escaped the fitful glow of boosted power. The high-pitched cackle of someone wasted on bubble floated across the night. He could guess that this was not one of the friendlier parts of the northeast sprawl.
He didn't recognize exactly where he was, which wasn't surprising given how big the sprawl was, but he did recognize something about the place. All around him he could feel the play of magic. His stay in the otherworld had sensitized him to such things, and made him more open to what his tutors had called the shai, the sense of awareness. Wherever he was, he was aware that it was one of those places where the walls between the worlds were weaker.
Luckily.
What he had done was stupid. The blind, stumbling transition he'd made could have gotten him into big trouble. Loreneth had told him once about an elf who hadn't made it across. John could have been caught that way, trapped in the dismal gloom between the worlds, until his mind frayed and he became a gray wraith haunting the edges of the worlds, never able to touch anything real.
The bubble dreamer laughed again. Like that, John thought. He could have ended up like that, without anything to anchor him to the real world—either real world. It scared him, and made him want to find another place to be.
He gave up his attempt at bandaging his back as hopeless. The shreds of his doublet would have made a poor bandage anyway. Maybe it was better that the wounds not be covered.
The wind was rising, rooting among the trash for scraps and fluttery things to carry off. Its touch on his skin wasn't unpleasant—anoth
er benefit of shai: he didn't feel the cold the way he used to—but it did remind him that he was not dressed for the streets. Being so obviously wounded made him a target for predators, and he'd been abused enough for one night.
The sprawl scut who had tried to roll him was wearing a coat, some kind of outback duster a couple of sizes too big, its hem frayed and stained from dragging on the ground. Once it had been a nice coat. It had seen hard wear, but it would do for him. As he stripped it from the scut, John told him, "You tried to steal from me. When I objected, you tried to kill me. I think I deserve some compensation, don't you?"
The mook didn't answer. Probably couldn't, even if he'd been conscious, the way his jaw was swelling. Well, he'd gotten what he deserved.
John checked out the coat but found nothing of interest beyond the sheath, roughly sewn into the lining, where the scavenger had kept his knife. Careful of his back, John shrugged into the coat. The fit wasn't bad. A little short in the sleeve, but not all that much. Most of the buttons were gone, but even hanging open it would serve his purpose. He dug the disk case from beneath his waistband and dropped it into one of the pockets. It was good to have pockets again. He hunted up the scut's knife and slipped it into the sheath.
There didn't seem any reason to hang around.
He headed toward the prefab hut. By the way that the streetlights outside the fence threw splinters of light on the ground over there, he guessed that there was a gate in that
corner. The damned thing was probably locked, but the fence
was lower there if he had to go over it.
Walking across the rubble-strewn ground wasn't fun. Each step reminded him that he was no gray wraith. No ghost ever I had a back that hurt like his. He really did need someone to look at it. Going over the fence started looking more and more like a bad idea.
Naturally the gate was locked.
John scowled at the loops of composite chain and the padlock securing them. It didn't take him long to find a hunk of rebar. In the course of his search he noticed a sign leaning against the hut. Big block letters proclaimed reclamation SITE. The picture showed a park, all trees and shrubs and grass. There even was a little pond with ducks on it. Half the space of the sign was devoted to a list of corporate sponsors. John didn't get it. How long did the suits think such a thing would last in a neighborhood like this one? Shaking his head, he slipped the rebar into the padlock's hasp and popped if. He left the gate swinging wide behind him.
Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves Page 15
