“You can ask,” Medard‑Yasine answered, but his smile widened.
“I want to watch, up close. Can you get me into the control room?”
“I figured,” Medard‑Yasine said. “Come on.”
He led the way through the door and into the depths of the club. These hallways were less crowded, but in nearly every side room a group had gathered around the VDIRT tables, and the same tiny figures moved in each tabletop display. The central courtyard was busier than Ransome had ever seen it, groups standing three deep at the larger tables there. Security was standing outside the control room, a thin unsmiling woman with specialists’ badges on her shoulders, and the Gamers who had ventured into this area gave her a wide berth. They clustered at the far end of the hall, where someone had hooked a trio of series‑linked Gameboards into a datanode, dividing their attention between the display screens and the door that led to the control areas. Medard‑Yasine ignored them, said something quietly to Security, who nodded and stood back from the door controls. Ransome waited while Medard‑Yasine keyed the entrance codes, looking politely down the hall away from the keypad. The people on the edges of the group looked back at him, frankly curious, and a couple of them put their heads together, murmuring to each other. Ransome smiled then, and a woman in the front row nudged the man next to her. Her voice carried quite clearly: “That’s Ambidexter, I’m sure of it.”
“You’ve been found out,” Medard‑Yasine said cheerfully, and pushed open the door.
Ransome followed him into the control room, crowded with Gamers and display equipment. A massive VDIRT table, twice as large as most club models, dominated the room; the scenario played in the air above the tabletop, the images almost solid enough to block out the real objects behind them, and the virtual screens in the tabletop itself glimmered with technical displays. Ransome glanced quickly at them, skimming the lines of symbols, looked away again to scan the crowd. Most of the Dock Road notables were here, all right–and there were maybe a dozen of them; Dock Road was a Gamer’s ghetto, especially around Underface–and the flickering tie‑in lights on the wall consoles meant that a lot more people were tapping in through MI‑Net. He looked sideways, at Medard‑Yasine, and saw a faint, feline smile of satisfaction on the other man’s face. Ransome touched his forehead in acknowledgment, and turned his attention to the Game.
–––
Interlude
Game/varRebel.2. 04/
subPsi. 1.22/ver22. 1/ses 1.26
They crouched in the uncertain shelter of the cargo bay, hearing the clatter of boots on the walkways to either side. The overhanging shelves, piled high with crates, gave some cover, but they all knew that if the Baron’s guards came out onto the center catwalk it would take a miracle to keep from being seen. Galan Africa/JAFIERA ROSCHA worked frantically at the powerpack of their only heavy laser, trying to mate a salvaged blaster cell into the nonstandard housing. Mijja Lyall/FERNESA crouched at his side, unable to concentrate on either the gun or on Jack Blue/VERE CAMINESI, who sprawled gasping against the nearest stack of crates. His bulk had displaced the lowest one slightly, and Gallio Hazard/IMBERTINE gave the whole stack a wide berth, kneeling well clear of its line of fall, his pistol drawn and cocked. He had laid the fresh clip on the decking beside him, ready for use. Lord Faro/PETER SAVIAN and Ibelin Belfortune/KAZIO BELEDIN crouched as always a little apart from the rest, Faro a little ahead of the wild‑eyed Belfortune, as though he could somehow protect him.
“Where the hell is this contact?” Desir of Harmsway/ALAZAIS MARICHE hissed, his light pistol already drawn and ready. “Come on, Avellar, you can explain this one, too.”
Avellar/GARET HUARD ignored him, went to kneel on the warped flooring beside Jack Blue. “How is it?” he said, as much to Lyall as to Blue, but it was the telekinetic who answered.
“Not so good.” Blue’s voice was thin and wheezy, and Lyall shook her head, reaching into the much‑depleted medical kit.
“If you weren’t so damn fat,” Harmsway sneered, and Blue frowned sharply. A cracked piece of the floor tiling snapped loose and flung itself at Harmsway’s face. He ducked away from it, but it still struck him a grazing blow along one cheekbone, raising a thin line of blood. Avellar snatched the falling tile before it could hit anything else.
“That’s why I’m so damn fat,” Blue said. The mass a telekinetic could move was directly related to his/her body weight; that he could throw even a kilogram, exhausted as he was, was the direct result of his obesity.
“Save your strength,” Avellar said to Blue, and looked at Harmsway. “The ship is there, Desir, and my contact’s waiting. Go right ahead.”
Harmsway looked longingly at the cargo door, just twenty meters away across the width of the warehouse. It was even open, the ship’s hatch gleaming in the loading lights, and he could feel that the last barrier was sealed only with a simple palm lock, the kind of thing he could open in his sleep… if he could only get there. His lips thinned, and he looked away.
“Avellar.” Lyall’s voice was suddenly sharp with fear, and Avellar swung to face her.
“I think–” Lyall began, then shook her head. “No, I’m sure. They’ve brought in a hunter.”
Harmsway swore, and Hazard looked back over his shoulder at him.
Africa said, as if he didn’t really want to know, “Hunter?”
“Another telepath,” Blue said. “One who specializes in sensing out his own kind.”
“How close?” Harmsway demanded, and Lyall shook her head again.
“I can’t tell. He–she–it’s shielded.”
Avellar’s lips tightened, and he looked at the two men who stood apart from the rest. Faro shifted his position slightly, almost in spite of himself, putting himself between Avellar and Belfortune. Belfortune did not seem to notice, but his free hand rose to the stained bandage on his left shoulder, pressed hard as though that would ease the pain. Avellar lifted a hand and looked instead at Africa. “How’s it coming, Galan?”
The technician shrugged, his hands never slowing on the balky connection. “We won’t know until I try to use it. I think I’ve got it.”
Avellar grimaced, looked back at Belfortune. “Bel.”
“Let him be,” Faro said. Belfortune passed his hand over his face, then reached for the gun he had laid beside him on the tiles. He still would not meet Avellar’s eyes.
“Bel,” Avellar said again. “We need you.”
“There’s nothing I can do.” Belfortune spoke flatly, without lifting his eyes from the floor. His useless left hand was tucked into the front of his jacket, held as if in a crude sling.
“Bullshit,” Harmsway said. “That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it. Just because you don’t like thinking you’re one of us, just because you and him”–his free hand swept out to indicate Lord Faro, who lifted an arrogant eyebrow in response–“have had the Baron’s favor, you don’t want to admit what you are. You could get us all killed, or you could save us. You’re a vampire, damn you, and right now that could save all our lives.”
Belfortune’s good hand closed convulsively over the gun, and he brought it up in a single smooth motion, leveling it at Harmsway. Harmsway stared back at him unmoving, handsome face set in his mask of habitual contempt. Avellar stirred, but said nothing after all.
“I’m not a vampire,” Belfortune said after a moment, and the gun’s muzzle wavered and fell. “Yes, I’m psi, I’ve never denied it–”
“Like hell,” Harmsway said.
Belfortune swept on as though he hadn’t spoken. “–but I’m only an interference maker. All I can do is fuck up somebody trying to use their psi. I can’t stop them. I can’t take their power away.”
“But you can.” Lyall’s voice was very soft, but they all heard her. “The tests were conclusive, I was there, I ran them. When you want to, you can stop all psi use cold.”
“And then what?” Belfortune asked. He smiled bitterly, without a trace of humor. “That’s the part no one ever asks ab
out, do they, Mijja? Because what happens is they die. I take their power, and they die without it.”
“Bel.” Faro’s voice was gentle, as though there was no one else near them, and all the time in the world.
“You know what happens.” Belfortune’s voice scaled upward, toward hysteria. “You know how they die. Oh, God, the taste of it in my mind–”
Faro reached out to him, but Harmsway cut him off. “Jesus Christ. It’s a hunter. And if you don’t kill him, we’re dead.”
“Shut up, Desir,” Avellar said. He looked at Belfortune. “Bel–”
Belfortune shook his head. “I can’t, Avellar. Not won’t. I can’t do it.”
“Let it be,” Faro said, with unexpected authority. He and Avellar locked stares for a moment, and then Avellar turned away.
“Ready,” Africa said, and held out the laser. Hazard took it warily, slipped his pistol and its spare clip back onto his belt.
“What do we do now, Avellar?” he said.
“Without Belfortune–” Lyall began, and broke off with a gasp.
Avellar took a deep breath. “We have to get on board the ship. And if the Baron’s brought in a hunter, they’ll know where we are any minute now. We’ll have to fight.”
“What a wonderful plan,” Harmsway jeered. “And how typical of your planning. Damn you, Royal, why didn’t you leave me here?”
Avellar looked at him, face absolutely without emotion. “I told you once, I need you, need your talent. I can’t take the throne without your help.”
Africa looked up as though he’d been stung, and Hazard spoke quickly, cutting off anything the technician might have said. “But to fight, Royal?”
Jack Blue said, “He’s right, Avellar. The odds aren’t in our favor.”
Avellar looked at Belfortune. “You hear them, Belfortune. It’s your choice.”
“I can’t,” Belfortune said, his voice little louder than a whisper. “I can’t.”
“He’s found us,” Lyall said. Her eyes were closed, face furrowed with concentration as she brought her minimal telepathy to bear on the problem. “He’s at the east entrance, and the chase squads are joining him.”
“Oh, shit,” Harmsway said. “Shit, shit, shit.” He flung himself out from under the shelter of the shelves, started down the corridor toward the eastern entrance. Overhead, a light fixture exploded in a shower of sparks; to his left, a cargo robot spun awkwardly on its treads, and started toward the entrance as well. Fat sparks gathered around him, snapped from his fingers and flickered away from him across the metal shelves and the walkways overhead as he tapped into and overloaded the cargo bay’s electrical systems. He turned down the first side corridor, and vanished.
“Desir–!” Avellar began, closed his mouth over whatever he would have said. “Hazard, get after him, get him back if you can.”
Hazard nodded. “But not for you, Royal,” he said, and started after the electrokinetic, the laser still gripped in his hands.
Avellar looked down at Belfortune, who still crouched against the cases. “Damn you to hell, Belfortune,” he whispered. “Give me a reason I shouldn’t kill you now.”
Belfortune did not answer, did not even seem to hear, and Faro said, “You pushed him too hard, Avellar, you and Harmsway. If you’d given me time–”
Avellar stared at him for an instant, but then nodded, acknowledging the rebuke. “All right,” he said, “get moving, all of you. Head for the hatch.”
“We can still back him up,” Africa said.
Blue shook his head, said, in a voice suddenly as old and tired as he looked, “He’s dead, man. They’re both dead. They’ll be on him in a minute.”
As if to underscore his words, the whine of laser fire sounded from somewhere near the east entrance, followed a moment later by the distinctive crack as an electrokinetically induced overload destroyed a laser’s powerpack.
Avellar winced. “All we can do now,” he said, “is get to the ship.”
“He’s right,” Blue said, and hauled himself to his feet, steadied by Lyall and Africa. “Let’s go.”
–––
Game/VarRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.27
Harmsway moved through the corridors in a hailstorm of electricity, glorying in a strength and skill he hadn’t known he possessed. Lights exploded overhead, spilled streamers of fire from the open circuits; he caught and shaped that inchoate power into bolts, and flung them in the faces of the Baron’s troops as they moved to engage him. Outside the sphere of his influence, lights flickered, control panels flashing yellow and red as he overloaded the system. He felt it, reached out to compensate, groping for access to the main power grid.
The first laser bolt spun him sideways into a stack of crates. He caught himself against their metal sides, electricity crackling unheeded from his hands, turned to point at the soldier, using his finger as focus and guide for his power. Stored electricity leaped from the nearest output node, flashed along his arm and across the intervening meters to strike the laser’s powerpack. It blew in a sheet of flame, and the soldier fell, screaming. Harmsway caught his breath, aware of a new pain in his chest, tried to flex his shoulder and failed, and shrugged the other shoulder and kept walking, back toward the east entrance where the hunter had been waiting.
There were more of the Baron’s guard waiting around the next corner, crouched behind the shield of a heavy gatling. Harmsway took a deep breath that burned in his lungs, concentrated, and reached out for the gun’s control circuits. The guards fired in the same instant, a brief hail of lead before Harmsway found the gatling’s electronics and destroyed the system. They had barely had time to aim, but two of the bullets struck his hip and leg. He staggered against the nearest stack of crates, tried to take a step, and fell, sliding against the bare metal until he was barely sitting, propped up against the crates. The first of the two surviving soldiers leveled his laser. Harmsway fought back the pain, and reached for the nearest output node. He drew power from it, but his side and leg burned and throbbed, and the electricity streamed out uncontrolled, writhed across the intervening metal of the floor like a fiery snake. The soldiers fell back for a moment, but then the second man, better protected by the gatling’s smoking carcass, raised his laser again. There were more soldiers coming up the corridor behind him, and an airsled rode in their midst: the Baron himself was coming to see the end of the hunt. Harmsway braced himself to die.
Hazard rounded the last corner at that moment, and the soldiers swung instinctively to cover him. He took in the situation at a glance–Harmsway down, blood and burned flesh everywhere, the soldiers with leveled lasers and the rest of the troop coming up behind them–and started to raise his heavy laser for the last time.
“Don’t shoot,” a whispering voice said from the airsled’s closed cabin, and Hazard froze. Harmsway made a small, painful sound, but the voice went on anyway, as though no one had spoken. “Hazard, you’re not a fool. Put down your gun, and I’m sure we can come to some agreement.”
Hazard hesitated, the muzzle of the gun wavering slightly–to fire was suicide, his and Harmsway’s, but the speaker was Baron Vortex, and his word could never be trusted.
“Your friend is badly hurt, maybe dying,” the voice went on. “But he could be saved. Put down your gun, Gallio Hazard, and I’ll see that he lives.”
“And me?” Hazard asked, with a short laugh.
“And you,” the voice agreed. “Both of you will live.”
“Why?”
“You’re running short of time,” the voice murmured, with a note like amusement, and Hazard shook his head.
“Why?” he said again.
“I need telepaths,” the voice said. “Electrokinetics of Harmsway’s talent are rare, to say the least; he may even be unique. You were not badly treated here, and if you cooperate, you can live quite well–you both can live quite well. Is Avellar’s rebellion worth that much to you?”
Hazard hesitated for a moment longer, then, very slowly,
laid his laser on the tiles, slid it hard toward the waiting soldiers. “All right,” he said. “We surrender.”
“Excellent,” the voice purred, and changed instantly to a snap of command. “Medics, see to that man. You, guard, search this one properly.”
Hazard lifted his hands, and submitted to the search, watching over the soldiers’ shoulders as a medical team swarmed over Harmsway’s unconscious body, loaded it into a medsled, and sped away. The nearest soldier prodded him, and he forced himself to move, walking back toward the entrance and the long trek back to the prison complex.
–––
Game/varRebel.2.04/subPsi.1.22/ver22.1/ses1.28
There were only two guards by the cargo door, both staring nervously toward the sound of Harmsway’s attack. They were sheltered by the hatchway, not an easy shot at all, and Avellar paused in the shelter of the final rack of crates, considering them cautiously. After a moment, he beckoned to Africa. The man frowned, but slipped forward to join the rebel leader.
“You’re the best shot of all of us,” Avellar said, leaning close, his voice an almost soundless whisper. “Can you take them?”
Africa frowned. “Not with a pistol.”
Avellar made a face, but eased back into the shelter of the crates. After a moment, Africa followed, still frowning.
“Let me,” Faro said.
Avellar shook his head. Before he could say anything, Jack Blue interrupted.
“I can draw them out, Avellar. Leave it to me.”
Avellar looked uncertainly at him for a moment–a fat man, wheezing, leaning awkwardly on Lyall’s shoulder–but slowly nodded. “If you can lure them out here…”
“We can take them,” Africa said. “Can’t we, Faro?”
Lord Faro nodded, snapped the last power cell into the butt of his pistol.
“Do it,” Avellar said.
Blue closed his eyes, frowned, and let himself sink cross‑legged onto the tiled floor. Slowly, the frown eased away from his heavy features, and his hands lay lax on his thighs. A few moments later, something stirred in the corridor to their right: it sounded like someone walking, the heavy, uncertain footsteps of a wounded man.
Burning Bright Page 10
