by Nyx Smith
Kurushima nods."Yes.”
There is, however, a time and place for all things, and proper methods and proper channels. This morning meeting at the Metascience facility offends Kurushima’s sense of propriety. What business has he, an auditor, meeting anyone anywhere but in the full and impartial light of his assigned station at Hurley-Cooper’s administrative offices? He would not have agreed to this meeting had not Amy Berman been the one to request it, and he only agreed out of the fear that, if he refused, she might launch into yet another of her tirades. He has faced these astonishing outbursts more than once and once was more than enough. Amy Berman is certainly one of the most outspoken, aggressive, shrewish woman executives he’s ever met, and he does not consider the acquaintance to be a pleasant one. There are ways in which one can make one’s opinions known, and ways of being aggressive without leaving the finer traits of civilization behind. Amy Berman is obviously unskilled in any of these techniques. She gives weight to the arguments of those who consider all women to be chaotic bundles of hysterical emotion, and all non-Japanese—and especially all Anglos—to be little better than barbarians.
And there is also the matter of the brief confrontation between Amy Berman and one of Kurushima’s junior auditors; specifically, Amy Berman’s remarks concerning “slaves and serfs.” Absolutely astonishing. Kurushima hopes that this trip to the Metascience facility—the fact that he is now going out of his way to accommodate a Hurley-Cooper executive—will serve in some part to dispel such ridiculous notions from Amy Berman’s mind.
Slaves and serfs. Unbelievable.
Could anything be further from the truth?
Fortunately, before such thoughts can completely unsettle his mind, the car pulls to a stop at the entrance to the Metascience facility. Kurushima strides into the lobby and is met there by a tall, pale man in an odd suit that seems some years out of date."I am Dr. Liron Phalen,” the man says."Allow me to welcome you, good sir, to our humble niche.”
“It is my pleasure,” Kurushima replies, briefly bowing, before he can quite stop himself. Being met by the eminent Dr. Phalen personally is something of a surprise. They shake hands. Kurushima hurries to say, “And it is my honor as well, Dr. Phalen. May I say that your standing as a scientist is well-known, both at the North American office of Kono-Furata-Ko, and at our home offices in Tokyo. It is regarded with great pride that a man of your reputation would serve as part of our corporate family, with our subsidiary, Hurley-Cooper Laboratories.”
Dr. Phalen chuckles, seeming pleased."My dear sir,” he says, “you must forgive my humility if I say you flatter me over-much. I’ve had the good fortune to make a few small contributions to the metasciences, but please make no more of it than that. If you’ll forgive the analogy, I am merely one bee in a hive of workers, nothing more. Shall we go on to my office?”
“I would be pleased to do so.”
Naturally, in a facility such as this, security procedures must be observed. Kurushima presents his KFK identification to the guards behind the counter at the rear of the lobby. This is quite routine; however, a problem arises. The IDs of his aide and the security operative do not “check.”
“There must be some mistake,” Dr. Phalen says.
“These two gentlemen aren’t in the computer,” says one of the guards in a rather flat monotone. Blunt enough to seem somewhat less than polite."We can’t admit anyone unless they check out, Dr. Phalen.”
“Why,” Dr. Phalen replies, “that’s absurd, surely.”
“Can’t be helped,” the guard says."That’s procedure."
"My good fellow, you can see for yourself that these gentlemen have their cards.”
“Can’t admit anyone without verification. That’s procedure.”
Dr. Phalen hesitates.
Kurushima feels forced to intervene, rather than let this go any further and risk a man of Dr. Phalen’s stature becoming embarrassed."I am sure this is merely a computer error of some kind,” Kurushima says."It is of no consequence, however. My escorts can await me here.”
Dr. Phalen smiles as if relieved."I’m quite bewildered by all of this, this security business. You’re quite sure you don’t mind leaving your friends behind?”
“I am certain that I will be quite safe without them,” Kurushima replies."They are merely security escorts.”
“Oh, I see,” Dr. Phalen says."Well, then ... shall we proceed?”
“Most certainly.”
“This way, my good sir.”
They take the lift to the second floor and enter Dr. Phalen’s small office, eccentrically furnished, much as one might expect, Kurushima supposes, of a mage and scientist. Such people are often a bit eccentric.
"Our good Ms. Berman will join us shortly,” Dr. Phalen explains. "She had to contact her office. In the meantime, may I interest you in some tea?”
“A most hospitable offer,” Kurushima says. ‘Thank you. I would be most pleased to accept.”
70
It’s eleven a.m. when Shaver sits up, slides her legs over the side of her cot, and rises to her feet.
Whistle whistles inquiringly.
“Where are you going?” asks Tang.
Shaver turns her glare across the room at the lone male. She does not like this elf’s constant close scrutiny, but she’ll take it this one last time. She resists a sneer, and says, “Gotta take a wizz. Wanna help?”
“No, thank you,” Tang replies."I’m sure you’re quite capable.”
Arrogant shick.
Shaver walks on: through the open doorway, the prep room, the corridor to the lav. Walking without limping takes a deliberate effort. The pain starts in her thighs and runs up through her groin and into her back. She has those fragging trolls of the Kong Destroyers to thank for that, and she’s going to thank them, just as soon as this job is finished. Her friends with Sisters Sinister will help. It’s gonna be a bang-bang day. Like today.
Inside a booth in the lav, she pulls the Ingram SMG from her hip holster and pops the clip. That clip goes into a pocket. The new clip she fits to the gun is loaded with thirty-two special slugs. Half are explosive. The other half are pure silver. They are packed into the clip in alternating fashion.
She has Striper to thank for the trolls, and she’s going to thank the slitch right now. The scientists have had the Were-shick for long enough. Now it’s her turn.
Frag Tang, frag the money.
She returns to the corridor. That ork biff Germaine who’s always hanging around passes by without a word. Just a nervous glance aside. Shaver sneers a smile and walks on to the prep room door. She has the code to open it and walks right on through, then straight across the room to the door of the Were-slitch’s room. She isn’t supposed to have the code to that door, but getting it was no problem. Not for her.
“Shaver!” Tang calls.
She ignores that, taps in the code, draws the smartgun, and steps through the doorway.
71
The tea does its work. The man slumps. The burning red of power on the astral plane is soon swelling to the limits of the room, gathering, swirling, concentrating, focusing down into an intense pinpoint of power hanging before the man’s forehead.
Influencing this man from Tokyo, this Kurushima, is not so much a matter of controlling his mind or thoughts, but rather the relatively simple matter of planting an idea, insinuating it into the mind, lodging it there, making it permanent. It is a sort of magic that Liron has practiced many times before, primarily to prevent others from disrupting his work. The cost to him in fatigue is negligible. He has grown strong since his metamorphosis, his transmutation into one of the Changed of the Roggoth’shoth. He has also advanced in the skills of the initiate. He has come quite far, all told. He yet has far to go.
Once the idea is securely lodged, Liron returns to his mundane perceptions, takes a datachip from his desk, and hands it to Kurushima."This chip contains the verifications you require, my dear sir. You may introduce it to your computers, if you wish, so a
s to better relate matters to your superiors.”
Kurushima rises from his chair like a man rising from sleep. He rubs at his forehead, his eyes. He shakes his head as if to clear it of the cobwebs of lingering dreams."Yes,” he says."I understand ... what you mean. I will do this. Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Liron replies.
“A most enlightening conference, Dr. Phalen,” Kurushima adds."I’m sure that appropriate measures will be taken ... so that... that in the future your researches need not be disrupted by administrative matters.”
“It was my pleasure, dear sir.” Liron touches the intercom on his desk, which brings Germaine within moments. She is most helpful. Particularly in dealing with such matters as involve computers."My dear, would you be so kind as to show Mr. Kurushima to his car? Forgive me, sir, if I do not show you out personally. A rather pressing matter already in progress demands my attention.”
“Certainly,” Kurushima replies. They shake hands."Goodbye, Dr. Phalen. Thank you for your time.”
“A pleasure, I assure you.”
While Germaine is showing the Tokyo man out, Liron goes through the side door into the small conference room adjacent. Amy Berman waits there, slumped in a chair, completely pacified.
Liron says the words to gather the power of the etheric and brandishes the ring that serves to focus the magic. His objective now is to unveil the secrets of the mind, rather than plant secret thoughts into it. He surrounds Amy in the spell and begins with his questions. Again, he finds her remarkably willful for a mundane.
It is some minutes before she admits to any knowledge of a shaman and some minutes more before she admits to involving one in Liron’s affairs. At length, she admits to bringing the shaman here to the Metascience lab, yet denies sending the shaman to Liron’s house. Odd. Liron had thought the two events must certainly be linked. Could he be mistaken? First things first: what is the shaman’s name? Where can he be found? Amy shakes her head, will not speak. Liron insists. He gathers more power and turns up the pressure on her mind. At long last, she gives in.
“Bandit,” she whispers.
“That is no name.”
“It is.”
How curious. Surely, this must be some type of nickname. Yet, try as he might, Liron cannot compel Amy to admit to anything of the sort. Her aura is turbulent enough to suggest a lie, but her will is like a wall of stone, as if she speaks absolute truth. Bandit. She says that over and over. Bandit is his name. Bandit. Bandit. Bandit.
Liron sighs."Oh, very well.” Where can this Bandit be found?
“I don’t know.”
Another wall of stone.
72
Tikki is lying with her flank to the wall and her nose about ten centimeters short of the doorway. She’s been waiting for hours, maybe even days.
When the door gushes open, Tikki looks and springs, hurling herself up at the doorway. She knows who’s coming before she can see more than just the edge of the doorframe. It’s the female elf that stinks of metal. The slitch she left with trolls from the Kong Destroyers. One of the two-legs who took her cub. Shaver.
A male shouts—Tikki recognizes the voice.
Perfect.
As she springs, forelegs lifting to strike, hindlegs thrusting, propelling her forward, a slender hand appears before her eyes, pointing a submachine gun into the room. Tikki bats the gun down and away and in the next instant she’s slamming bodily into the figure coming through the doorway. She sees that it’s Shaver and Shaver opens her mouth as if to shout or scream, but the ambush is sprung, the trap is closed. Tikki seizes the elf with her forelegs, slams her into one side of the doorway, and flings her down to the floor.
The SMG skitters away.
Tikki straddles the elf, her jaws spread wide. With one lunge of her head she could put this slitch to death. Then she sees the elf’s frenzy, smells the elf’s desperate fury, and hesitates.
What if her mother was wrong? What if two-legs are not just insidious betrayers and murderers? What if they are more like her and her kind than she’s ever imagined?
And what if the door slides shut?
Roaring, Tikki pounds the elf’s shoulders into the floor, then turns and flings herself at the doorway.
The elf shrieks."SLITCH! I’LL KILL YOU!"
The door is sliding shut. Tikki thrusts a paw between door and doorframe and, incredibly, the door bounces back, like the door to an elevator. Slipping, stumbling, banging off the doorway, Tikki shoves at the floor and lurches ahead.
The room beyond is lined with carts and cabinets and high-tech equipment. Tikki spots three doors. The ones ahead and to her left are closed. The one to her right is open. Her nose turns her to her right before she has time to consider which way might offer escape. Through the open door comes the elf O’Keefe and the other female, Whistle. O’Keefe’s eyes grow enormous and the air suddenly stinks of fear as Tikki flattens her ears to her skull and charges.
"Whistle!"
O’Keefe tugs a machine pistol free of his belt. Tikki meets him nose-to-nose—fangs bared and roaring—using her chest like a battering ram and driving O’Keefe back three or four meters, right through the open door and into another room. Whistle cries out shrilly, driven back off her feet. O’Keefe’s gun rattles on full automatic, but Tikki slaps the hand that holds it, like the elf connected to that hand, flat to the floor.
“FRAGGER!”
Tikki roars and tears at his chest. Here is a two-leg who deserves to be blooded if not destroyed. And she might have done that, too, only chills rush up her back. Her ears snap up. The air is suddenly electric. She jerks her head left and right. She’s in another room like the room she was confined in—gray walls, no windows—just the one door. What kind of place is this? What’s happening? She sees Whistle on her feet and making signs with her fingers like a magician might make. Tikki turns and lunges and batters the slitch to the floor. How does she get out of this place!
A gun stammers from behind. Tikki whirls. Gun in hand, Shaver’s limping toward her from the room with the high-tech equipment. Tikki lunges aside, out of the line of fire. O’Keefe is rolling onto his side and reaching for his machine pistol. With a paw like a hand, Tikki grabs it, then spins toward the door and points the gun at Shaver’s face.
Whistle screams, “NOOOOO!”
And then the world explodes.
73
“My ID checks.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. You can go on ahead.”
The guard behind the counter at the rear of the Metascience main lobby barely finishes saying that when the dull roar of an explosion rumbles through the building walls.
Bandit feels it vibrate through the lobby floor.
Has someone mixed the wrong chemicals together? or is there some more sinister explanation?
Alarm bells begin clanging. Amber strobes descend from the ceiling of the lobby and begin flaring rapidly. The guard blinks, shakes his head, rubs a hand down over his mouth, then grabs a telecom handset from the console behind the counter."Sergeant on patrol,” he says into the handset."My board shows an incident at... at Lab Six. It sounded like an explosion. Yes, sir. Initiating security lockdown.”
A klaxon blasts. Bandit turns to see heavy metal shutters descending over the front lobby doors. That could be a problem, but it could also work in his favor. The person he is here to see might be dissuaded from attempting to leave for a little while.
“Where do I find Dr. Phalen?”
Someone begins frantically shouting at the guard through an intercom. The guard speaks rapidly into the handset.
“Where is Lab Six?”
“Through those doors to the right!” the guard shouts.
Bandit steps through the doors beside the counter and turns right, and enters a scene of pandemonium.
Bells clang, klaxons blare, strobe lights flash. Dust and smoke billow through the hallway. People shout and shriek. Three people in white lab coats run past Bandit’s left, one tripping, fall
ing, and scrambling up in passing by. As Bandit moves ahead, the dust and smoke thickens, then clears a bit. He comes to a segment of hallway littered with debris. There’s a huge, jagged hole in the hallway wall on the left. The hole flickers and flashes with arcane energy. Beyond the hole, Bandit sees a room littered with debris, an overturned table and chairs and the sprawled forms of several metahumans.
Out through the hole in the wall steps an unusual figure. It is like that of a woman, but unlike any woman Bandit’s seen before. She is slim below the waist—naked, too. Above the waist, she is massive and powerful, cloaked in a reddish fur marked by black stripes, and streaming blood. Her face is inhuman. Her eyes glint red in catching the light. A gun dangles from one hand.
This does not appear to be related to Bandit’s reason for being here.
He frowns, puzzling, all the more so when he views the unusual being on the astral plane. Her aura is not that of a human. He is some moments realizing that he is looking at an aura like that of a tiger.
The being pauses, watching him, softly growling.
Is this a natural being? a dual-natured being? or is she the result of some terrible experiment, which might account for the warping of the fabric of nature of this place?
Something changes. The animal face suddenly seems more humanoidal. In a voice like a husky snarl, the being says, “My cub ...
“Where is it?!"
Cub? What does she mean? That is an animal word, not a word for a human or humanoidal infant. Bandit stares, baffled, then suddenly an image comes to mind. He remembers his first visit to this place, the lab of Dr. Ben Hill, the small red and black-striped creature he saw in a cage. Could that be mere coincidence? “I saw a small ... being, like a tiger, in Lab Sixteen. It had fur like you. The same color.”
More shouts. Bandit looks to see a pair of uniformed guards coming up the hallway at a run. The mysterious striped being before him whirls, lifting her gun. The guards tug guns from holsters. Bandit murmurs words of power. The guards’ arms leap upward. Their guns jerk free of their hands and go sailing back over their shoulders. Their pants drop to around their ankles and send them sprawling.
