Black Blood

by John Meaney

  “Gladius Armaments. I used a smaller-caliber version a few weeks back.”

  “Those Illurians build robust weapons,” said Brian. “Clean design. You can drop 'em in mud and they'll still fire.”

  “And GA? Where are they based?”

  “Illurium, like I said. Oh … Aurex City.”

  “Silvex City, I've been to.”

  “Aurex is a long way away, Lieutenant. It's almost terminatorial. You wouldn't want to be outdoors in a place like that.”

  “I'll wear a hat.”

  Viktor's low growl was almost too deep to hear. “You want to tell us what's going on?”

  “I kept a simple question in mind,” said Donal, “when I went into the vault. Really simple.”

  “And?”

  “Who is Marnie Finross?”

  “Laura arrested her. You were there when they executed her uncle.”

  “Uh-huh. So if the alderman was her uncle, who are her parents? Why didn't anyone even try to find out? And why is she important enough to break out of a secure facility?”

  “Huh.”

  “Her father's name is Brax Devlin.” Donal put the GA handgun back on the shelf. “And he's—”

  “The head of Gladius Armaments,” said Brian. “I've got a picture of him somewhere. An interview in an old copy of Trigger Monthly.”

  “Good man. Anything else you've got on GA will be useful.” Donal picked up another gun—a polished dark-red Stigmatix—checked the action, and put it back. “The Old Man was investigating something else in connection with GA. To do with weapons.”

  “What was it?” asked Harald.

  “I don't know. I had a peripheral sense of it, I guess you'd say. The vault… it gives you links from the information you've asked about, and you can follow them partway. Then it fades.”

  “Fades into pain?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “Donal, if you'd seen your face when you were lying there outside that Death-damned vault, you wouldn't need to ask.”

  “Oh.”

  Just then, the floor began to sparkle and swirl with light. Aggie rose up through it, and hung in the air, glowing and billowing.

  There's something I need to know, lover.*

  Donal glanced at Harald, Viktor, and Brian, and wondered what they were thinking.

  “What about, Aggie?”

  *Exactly how you attuned yourself to the vault.*

  “That… was a gift from the Old Man.” Donal unknotted his tie, and got to work on his shirt buttons. “I wouldn't do this if I weren't among friends.”

  *I'm not saying anything.*

  “Right.” He pressed into his chest, and pulled the flap open. “See?”

  Something nestled in the cavity, against his black, beating heart. Donal reached in and drew out the eyeball.

  “Like I said, a gift.” With his other hand, he sealed up his chest opening. “He tore it right out of his own eye socket, when he was lying there shot.”

  “Thanatos,” growled Viktor.

  *You won't need it again. The vault knows you now.*

  “I guess.”

  The thought of entering again was dreadful. Donal knew he would not be able to manage the ordeal again soon.

  Then can I have it? Call it a keepsake.*

  “What? Oh …”

  Donal looked down at his hand, then reached out.

  *Thank you. Arrhennius was my friend.*

  Aggie's bright form enveloped Donal's hand. When she drifted back, Commissioner Vilnar's eyeball was gone.

  *Be careful, Donal. I don't want to lose you too.*

  “Of course I'll—”

  But Aggie was already sinking down through the floor.

  Seven big uniformed cops, with weapons drawn, stepped from seven elevator shafts simultaneously, into a gray-carpeted lobby. Two of them went to the female officer behind the desk, one clasping a hand over her mouth, while the other used snapcords to bind her wrists.

  Seven more cops stepped through, and this time one of them was Captain Sandarov. They took several paces forward, then stopped. None of the cops spoke. Sandarov looked at the glowing sign that hung below the ceiling.

  ~CUSTOMER RELATIONSHIP BUREAU~

  A white-haired woman stepped into the lobby, accompanied by three shaven-headed men. She looked at Sandarov.

  “We're ready, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Professor. Let's do it.”

  They poured through the entry door, into the open office space of the call center.

  “No!” One of the call handlers was very quick, leaping from his chair. “Get—”

  A uniformed cop whipped an elbow into the man's mouth, knocking him back across his desk. The others brought their weapons to bear.

  Professor Steele reached over to the fallen man's indigo phone, took hold of the receiver cord between both hands, and lowered her chin, eyes squeezed shut. A gunshot cracked at the far end of the room, but she kept her concentration.

  White lightning sizzled from her hands down the cord. It sped across the connections, spread out around the room as every telephone blazed white. Call handlers cried as they threw the phones aside, falling back.

  One whipped out a knife, but a heavy boot took him straight in the bladder, then a hard elbow rammed into the back of his neck, and he was out of it.

  Sandarov was biting his lip. The call handlers were trained cops, and victims of ensorcellment. He didn't want any casualties—but if any occurred, it would be among the call handlers and not his own team, or the mages.

  Perhaps the mages had no need of his protection. The three shaven-headed men were standing back-to-back, forming an outward-facing triangle—like Professor Steele, they were closing their eyes, slipping into whatever altered state allowed them to manipulate thaumaturgic energies.

  A mesmeric droning filled the air.

  Even Sandarov felt unsteady, although the effect was targeted, specifically not aimed at him or his officers. He turned, checking the room.

  Everywhere, call handlers were slumping in their chairs or slipping to the ground.

  “Very nicely done,” said Sandarov.

  The victims were asleep.

  Two big black helicopters rose from an airfield outside Fortinium. Their triple-bladed rotors chopped the dark sky. Inside the holds, the noise was loud, and it would have been hard for the passengers to speak, had they wanted to.

  Both choppers contained rows of dark-suited men and women, their expressions grim, concentrating. Each of them held a map of Tristopolis, with the telephone exchanges belonging to Central Resonator Systems, Exc, marked in purple. None of them needed the maps any longer, having finished creating eidetic memory-images. They were clear on what they had to do.

  They were federal spellbinders.

  When Donal walked into Surveillance, followed by Harald and Viktor, the atmosphere was disorganized. Some of the officers stared into their monitors as normal, others were arguing with one another. Rob Helborne stood with his arms crossed, not even trying to calm things down. When he saw Donal, he walked over quickly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” said Donal. “Why do you ask?”

  “Look at it.” Helborne gestured at the screens. “Tristopolis is going nuts. Craigsen's under arrest, there are cops pulling busloads of zombies off the streets, other cops preventing them. It's got to calm down soon, or we'll end up with chaos.”

  “Are the newspapers being delivered?”

  “Uh … as far as I know.”

  If Jo Serranto had lived up to her promise, there would be some interesting headlines on the late edition. It should kill the zombie-baiting. At least, Donal hoped it would.

  Captain Sandarov entered the room, accompanied by three of his uniformed cops. He nodded to Donal, and walked past him to the iron portal leading to what had been Commissioner Vilnar's office. Sandarov stood there quietly, waiting.

  “It won't open for him,” said Helborne.

  “Probabl
y not.” Donal nodded to Harald and Viktor. “That's why we're here.”

  When Donal approached, the portal pulled open, and stayed that way as Harald, Viktor, and Sandarov passed through. The inner door opened.

  No ciliaserpents rustled around the doorway, and when the men stepped inside the room, it was almost bare of furniture. The few items remaining were insensate, ordinary chairs and cabinets. One of the cabinets bore a label: Commissioner's Eyes Only.

  “I don't think I'll touch that,” said Sandarov, “until it's official.”

  “Wise idea.” Donal noted the emptiness of the room, and wished he hadn't come. “How definite is your appointment?”

  “I talked to Councillors Brownstone and Camberg. One of them will almost certainly be the next mayor. They've both agreed to support me.”

  “Good. Sir, I need to go to Illurium. I've already booked a flight to Silvex City.”

  Sandarov stared at the wall, as though he could see through it to Surveillance.

  “Things are still uncertain. Not just for resurrected people on the streets. There are Unity Party supporters everywhere, and things could well get worse over the next few days, not better. Traveling is not safe.”

  “Yeah. Did you talk to the feds?”

  “Spellbinders are on their way. I had a rather unsettling phone conversation with their commanding officer.”

  Harald smiled.

  “They're unusual people.”

  “That they are.”

  The commissioner's black telephone was on the bare floor at the far end of the room. Donal walked over and picked it up. He looked at Sandarov.

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir.” Donal spun the cogs. “Hi, international operator? Yeah, Illurium, please. Police Central, Silvex City.”

  He waited.

  “Hello,” he said when a wraith answered, “Inspector Temesin, please. My name's Donal Riordan.”

  But when the extension rang, the gruff voice that picked up wasn't Temesin's.

  “Just tell him I rang,” said Donal. “Please.”

  He put the receiver down.

  “I still don't think you should fly to Illurium,” Sandarov said. “I know for a fact there are UP members among airport security.”

  “I know. That's why I'm not flying. But if anyone anticipates my going to Illurium, they'll find my booking for the fifteen o'clock flight from Tempelgard, the day after tomorrow.”

  “Maybe they'll expect the misdirection.”

  “Nothing lost if they do.”

  “I guess not. You'll have exactly the legal status of a tourist in Illurium. I hope your friend there can help.”

  “Yeah …” Donal stared at the phone. “Somehow, I think of Temesin as Commissioner Vilnar's friend. But that doesn't make logical sense, does it?”

  “I've no idea.” Sandarov looked at Harald and Viktor. “You two, stay with me for a while. Donal, good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Sandarov held out his hand, and Donal shook it.

  Then Harald likewise offered his hand. Viktor raised his eyebrows, and Donal could understand why. Within the team, wishing someone luck was usually a punch to the upper arm or a sarcastic remark about their ancestry.

  “Take it easy, Harald.”

  “Good luck, Donal.”

  As Donal left, he made sure to turn so that neither Viktor nor Sandarov could see his right hand, nor the small, hard object that Harald had passed to him.

  Something powerful.

  Yes, I feel it.

  He clenched his fist hard as he walked from the Old Man's office, which seemed already to be a relic of the past, losing focus in memory. He wondered whether he would ever return to this place, and whether it would matter if he failed.

  Laura.

  It's all right. Everything is fine.

  His grip tightened further.

  Not while Cortindo lives.

  Two days later, Donal was swimming naked through black seawater, with a small pack strapped to his chest. Behind him was the diminishing outline of a rusted gray trawler, whose legitimate function of fishing for barbhydra and tigersquid was only part of what the hard-faced crew got up to.

  A shot sounded, flat across the waves. Whether it was intended for him, Donal could not tell. On that vessel, it could have meant anything.

  He continued to swim.

  The trawler was one of a small fleet owned by One-Hand Krohl, a graduate of the same orphanage that Donal had survived. Krohl helped Donal on occasion, but he was no model citizen, and Donal knew better than to trust he would reach Port Sinstra intact just because he was on Krohl's boat.

  Soon, he could make out skeletal cranes outlined against the indigo, near-black sky. Had it not been for ripples of phosphorescence deep below, he would have been content in the quiet waters. As it was, he held the thought of his destination strongly in his mind, nothing but that, allowing his body to swim.

  Sometime over an hour later, a concrete dock loomed in front of him. Swimming, his hand missed a rusted ladder, and he hit a rung face-first, before grabbing hold. He hung there for a few seconds, then hauled himself up.

  He was exhausted, but in a good way, with the same triumph he got from completing a long run. But this wasn't training.

  Get into cover.

  It was easy enough, among the stacks of freight containers, to find shadows where even a pale zombie's skin could not be seen. There, he slipped off his pack, and pulled out the first waterproof membrane-sac, tearing it open, to reveal a large towel.

  Soon he had dried off and dressed, a long dark overcoat covering his suit. The backpack and torn membranes, he rolled up and stuffed into a waste can as he walked past. No one challenged his presence on the dock.

  Under his arm, the Magnus was dry and intact, giving comfort in strange surroundings.

  To leave the dock area, he had to climb a tall wire fence. He did it carefully, taking his time, trying to keep his clothes untorn. He might have to interact in civilized company, without a chance to reequip. The fanged wire at the top wriggled at Donal's approach, but it stilled when he placed his hands on it. All along the fence, the topmost coils grew limp. Someone might notice, but Donal held on for as long as he could, replenishing his energy.

  Then he went over the top, scaled down, and reached a deserted road. Wasteground lay beyond it, but farther on were lights and ordinary-looking tenements. Donal set off walking.

  He had some Illurian currency from his previous visit. When he reached the houses, he retrieved eight-and ten-sided coins from his pocket, and looked for a phone booth.

  Finding one, he went inside, spun the wheels to a memorized number, and shoveled in coins. He asked for Inspector Temesin.

  “One moment.”

  Outside, a white lizard stopped on the sidewalk, looked up at Donal, then scuttled on into darkness.

  “Temesin.”

  “This is—”

  “I know who it is. And I've cleared the board to help you. With you around, I'm going to get a promotion or fired, maybe dead. Better than being bored.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Yeah. Where are you now?”

  “I'm in Illurium.” This was a moment for trust. “Port Sinstra.”

  “You can catch a train to Silvex City.”

  “That's not my final destination.”

  “I have two air tickets to Aurex City, and friends there who can help. What, you think I'm an amateur?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “So let's take a trip. It'll be fun, except everyone in Aurex City thinks Silvecians are country bumpkins.”

  “You mean you aren't?”

  “Shit, yes. We just don't like them pucker-asses telling us, is all.”

  Donal laughed.

  “So, listen, do you know your measurements?”

  “Say what?”

  “Clothes. Shoes. Like that.”

  “Oh.”

  Having been measured for suits in the Janava
l, Donal knew the numbers exactly, and recited them now.

  “Is this for a disguise?” he added. “Do I get a false nose?”

  “Ring me when you arrive.”

  The line buzzed.

  Donal went out, and walked along streets, toward the obvious center of town. By the time he reached the main railway station, the first services were beginning to run. He bought his ticket, and stood on a near-empty open-air platform, watching a winged sea-lizard hovering overhead, facing into the wind, until it spotted a family of dark moths and descended to feed.

  He wondered at Temesin's knowledge of what was going on, and his own conviction that Temesin had known the commissioner, although there was no logical basis for that belief.

  Since the vault.

  “Ah,” he said to no one at all.

  I've felt that way since the vault.

  It was one of the peripheral pieces of information lodged in his mind since that ordeal. Since he'd been through significant pain to get it, he hoped the information was accurate.

  The train that pulled in was long, polished burgundy and yellow, and looked as Donal had expected, except that all four locomotives—two in front, two at the rear—and every car bore wheels set into the roof, with no obvious purpose, in addition to the usual wheels underneath.

  When he got on board, he found a comfortable window seat. Few people were traveling this early, but of those who were, just over half had skin that was stippled with prickles; scaled; or even feathered. Whatever faults Illurium might have, prejudice against nonhumans wasn't one of them.

  An Illurian telephone company—or power company—would have no inherent reason to support antizombie legislation in another country. So why had they been operating not just covertly, but with links to the Unity Party in Tristopolis, and perhaps in other Federation cities?

  Perhaps it was just a fault line in Tristopolitan politics. If the culture had been different, the companies—or certain people in those companies—would have looked for a different way to generate instability: not for commercial reasons, but because the Black Circle was behind them, with its own destructive agenda.

  Incomplete reasoning.

  The logic seemed to curve in on itself, leaving a gap. He thought of busloads of zombies, driven to the Outer Counties by shitkicker cops. What the Hades had been happening there?