Choose Your Enemies Carefully

by Robert N. Charrette

  The growing light of the burning wicker lit the shape. With each step it became more defined. From an amorphous thing, it was resolving itself into a gnarled and hulking man shaped of refuse from the midden heap and fragments of the abandoned carriage house. It was a golem made of trash, and its outline was the same as that of the wicker man.

  One of the sacrifices screamed, the flames burning through his drugged haze, and the thing jerked. Piece by piece, Barnett’s car, an ancient petrol-burning antique, tore itself apart, chunks whirling free to soar through the air and join with the mound. It grew and shambled forward.

  David Neville faced it from within the ring of hedge. He was careful not to step past the safety of the magical barrier provided by the chalked circle. He stood straight, arms outstretched and palms raised to beseech aid.

  "By the powers of sky, I command thee. By the powers of the earth, I bid thee be gone. I stand firm on the land, caressed by the wind, and cast thee forth."

  Attuned to the astral, Glover could see the energy gather around David before bursing forth to strike the thing. The glittering darkness of the monster’s aura absorbed the power, swallowing the bright beam as if it had never been. Glover’s mouth went dry. Young Neville was a prig and a snob, but he had power and had specialized in dealing with astral entities. Glover had seen him dismiss unruly spirits often enough. Whatever this was. it already had power enough to resist him.

  A gap opened in the chest of the trash thing, a dark maw fanged with leaf springs, bumpers, and metal fragments, and a stream of semi-liquified garbage spewed forth to drench Neville. He stagged back, retching. The pool of refuse at his feet solidified and trapped him where he stood. Dripping tendrils of slime hardened, freezing his motion. His legs disappeared, encased in the ever deeper flow of filth that poured from the horrid monstrosity. Neville tried again to shout the formula of dismissal, but the commands gurgled to a strangled stop as the growing mound overtopped his head and entombed him.

  The thing convulsed, apparently collapsing in on itself as if Neville’s dismissal had finally taken effect. It was a false hope. The narrow bridge of offal and rubbish expanded where it met the golem. A bulge, like a pig in a python, moved along the connection of garbage. The greater part of the monster’s bulk formed that bulge as the great mass outside the maze transferred itself along that slender bridge. The mound that concealed young Neville thickened, ballooning out as the mass concentrated. The debris pile stretched and contorted until the trash thing reformed its shape and stood on the spot where he had opposed it.

  Barnett cast a spell at the monster, flames arcing from his outthrust hand to splash against the hulk. Steam and smoke billowed up, but though small fires flickered on the affected area, the garbage golem did not react to the attack.

  Hyde-White stood riveted in trance, sweat rolling in sheets across his vast expanses of flesh. Like Glover, he gathered in the strands of power as druids left the ritual to devote their energies to fighting off the intruder. Glover had little time to appreciate the old man's struggle; assimilating his part of the added burden was taxing his own control.

  The other druids cast spells and attempted their own banishments. Their efforts had some effect; the monstrosity seemed confined between the outer and inner protective rings of the great chalk circle. Fitzgilbert ventured too close to the thing and was struck down by a flailing limb of rusted metal and decaying wood. Debris showered them as he collapsed to the ground, his neck broken by the blow.

  Glover’s arm was seized in a bone-racking grip. Hyde-White had crossed the ring. Leaving his place had been a necessity for the fat man; the trash thing occupied that space.

  "Andrew, now you see what Neville’s obsession has led us to. He has no control over this corrupted spirit. As I feared, there is a flaw in the ritual and so this thing has been spawned. If the sacrifice is completed, there is no telling what strength it will have."

  Glover stared at the monstrosity. It was fascinating, at once compelling and disgusting. Its power was enormous, but its very unnaturalness was the final proof of Hyde-White’s argument. "We must stop it." Hyde-White's chin disappeared in the folds of flesh that hid his neck as he nodded. "If the spell is broken suddenly, there may be a backlash. I will guard the link with Neville while you do what must be done." What must be done.

  Glover looked at the wicker man. The flames had already consumed its left half and were spreading. Where it had burned fiercely, the sacrifices were no longer moving. Corbeau lay bound within the mannikin’s right arm. The fire ravened closer, and he was beginning to stir as the heat and excitement penetrating through his drugged haze. So much effort to get him here, and now it was spoiled by Neville’s arrogance.

  In the center of the circle, the older Neville stood tall and straight, the golden sickle raised above his head. His eyes were closed and his lips moved as he feverishly spoke the words of the ritual, "We offer blood to the earth. Let the land drink from this divinely ordained vessel and be refreshed." Gordon walked toward him intoning the prayer of offering, naming himself as the gift and offering his own blood to revitalize the land. He knelt before Neville, stretching his head back to offer his throat.

  Glover couldn’t allow that royal blood to feed the monstrosity. Hoping that he was not also destroying the land’s hope, he gathered his power and sent it in a blast that ripped the right arm from the wicker man in an explosion of green witchfire. Corbeau screeched as the arcane energies shredded his flesh and boiled his body fluids. It was a faster death than the creeping sacrificial flame, but no less harsh.

  "You fool! What have you done?" shouted Neville as he stumbled across the ring to seize Glover.

  "Stopped your abortion." A sweep of his arm broke the old man’s grip.

  "You have destroyed all we have worked for!"

  "I have saved it. Look!"

  The garbage golem swayed wildly. Tilting at nearly forty-five degrees from the vertical, it suddenly lost cohesiveness and shattered into its component elements. The stench of decay and putrefaction burst over the clearing as rusted metal and rotted organic matter pelted the ground. The half-decomposed corpse of the young Neville lay amid the debris, its white bones gleaming in the firelight.

  "See what you have done, old man, and what your warped ambitions have cost you. Your son lies dead. That’s a price you'll have on your conscience to the grave. Pray that your conscience won’t be burdened by worse. We can only hope that your folly hasn’t cost us the land."

  "What are you talking about?" one of the others asked. They had gathered around the quarrelers.

  Glover stabbed a finger at the heap of debris that had stalked their ceremony. "That. We all saw how that thing grew as the sacrifices were consumed." Glover turned his wrathful face on Neville. "Had you completed the ritual, that thing would have been empowered in a way beyond our dreams. You would have spawned a scourge for the land."

  "No!" Neville’s face was twisted with denial. "It would have been destroyed. The corruption would have been swept away."

  Glover sneered at the desperation in Neville’s voice. The man couldn’t even convince himself. "Then why did it disperse when I interrupted the ritual?"

  Neville’s eyes darted across the assembled survivors. There was no comfort for him in those faces.

  "I don’t know," he mumbled.

  "Well, I have seen enough to know. You have misled us, old man. Your way has been shown to be flawed and unwholesome. We must find another way to restore the land. We must hope that it can yet be done, and that your perverse meddling has not closed the door."

  Barnett made a show of turning his shoulder away from Neville. "Glover, you are the one who saw what needed to be done. What should we do now?"

  "Whatever is necessary," Gordon said. When all eyes were turned to him, he added, "I was ready to give my life that the land be restored. Who could ask for more commitment? I need only be shown the way. If you see that way, Master Glover, I will follow your lead."

  "It is an
awesome responsibility," Glover said.

  "Which you have shown yourself strong enough to take on."

  Glover’s spirit soared. Acclamation from His Highness! Hyde-White had been right. Opportunity was rising before him; he would be a fool and a weakling if he did not seize it. He tried to mask his elation, to present a properly stern face as Ashton, who had been Neville’s student, removed the archdruid’s pectoral from the old man and held it out to Glover. His hands trembled as he accepted it.

  "I serve the land as you do, Highness. As you have come to understand, we must all do whatever is necessary to see it healthy again. As leader of this Circle, my goal will be to see the land restored to its glory. Nothing shall deter me."

  He felt the strength of his conviction as he spoke. He would do anything to see the land saved. Behind him, he felt Hyde-White’s presence, massive and supporting.

  PART 2

  There Are Always Choices

  15

  London stank.

  It wasn't just the fumes and garbage stenches that permeated everything, although the city had those, just like every other major metroplex. London’s peculiar effluvium was a legacy of the terrorist attack of 2039, when the radical group called Pan Europa had released a bioagent in retaliation for England’s supposed part in the break-up of the EEC. The bug had been supposed to break down the sheathing element of the metroplex’s newly completed dome. The terrorists must have been pleased to see the biofabric skin had evaporated under the ravenous organism. But had they known what effect their organism would have on other biological fibers?

  Intentional or not, once the bug was released, there had been no way to recall it. Much of London’s historical legacy had been destroyed when the uncontrolled organism had devoured the city’s paper and wood. The panic riots that had followed had devastated the city, vandalizing its present and almost completely devouring its past. The spirit of London’s people had failed as well, the dreams of leading a new Europe dying in the mouldering aftermath.

  Now, the bones of the abandoned dome arched over the city like the broken ribcage of a rotting antediluvian beast, as the fungi of skyscapers, towers, and communications arrays clawed toward the sky through the bleached struts.

  Sam saw those gleaming spires of the new plex as monuments to the megacorporations’ contempt for the common folk. Instead of nurturing the people’s hopes, the corps had defied the growing power of the Green Party and taken advantage of the chaos and built to their own whims. With bought votes in Parliament and sweetheart deals for the still-landed aristocracy, the megacorps had twisted English law, shattering the people’s dreams of safety and protection. Despite the restored constitutional monarchy, George VIII, the Lord Protector, and Parliament didn’t govern the country alone. The megacorps ruled much of England as surely as they ruled their own boardrooms.

  But London was a modern metroplex, and in the shadows of the corporate towers there was another world; one the megacorps and the Lord Protector’s Greens didn’t rule. London had its shadow world, not unlike Seattle’s. In the corners and the darkness, men and women, shadowrunners, fought the aggressive, uncaring domination of the corporate powers. And when the corps struck back, the runners hid ... in the abandoned stretches that reminded Sam of Seattle’s Barrens, in the teeming hives of the Public Zones beneath the corporate towers, and in the dank tunnels of the service ways and sewers that made up the undercity. Especially in the sewers.

  The cold, slimy water trickled through his close-cropped hair. If his hair were longer, the chill splash would have been softened; he wouldn’t have felt dampness until the noisome liquid threaded its way unto the bare skin on the back of his neck.

  Why was Hart late? Fifteen minutes already. In their three weeks of haunting the London shadow world, she had always been on time, if not early. Even in those rare moments when they had met to relax, she had been prompt. Unlike Sally.

  Sally wouldn’t like it here. She hated the dark, closed-in places. He remembered her curses when they broke into the Renraku arcology so long ago. So long ago? Little more than two years had passed. He had been living in another world then, living a different life. Since then, he had entered the shadows and found a new life. Was he on the verge of starting down yet another new path?

  When he thought about Sally, he remembered the good times they had had in bed, the intensity of it all. But he also remembered the fights and the sniping. He had always had the feeling that he somehow didn’t measure up to Sally’s standards. Well, drek! He didn’t measure up to his own most of the time, but that didn’t make him worthless. Times changed; people changed. He had.

  Had something happened to her?

  Sam’s worry was real, but the face he attached to it was Hart’s. That surprised him. How easily she had slipped into his thoughts to displace Sally. Almost as easily as they had slipped into bed together. At the time, it had just seemed right somehow. And now? Well, now it still seemed right.

  What about Sally?

  "What about Hart?" Estios whispered belligerently.

  "She said she'd be here."

  Sam wished he felt as assured as he sounded. Or did he sound confident at all? Estios seemed as nervous as he ever got. The tall elf was always so cocky; the absence of his partners didn’t usually affect him. Was he worried about Hart, too? It seemed unlikely. Ever since they had met in the circle of Stonehenge, Estios had distrusted Hart. Even though she had saved them all from blundering into the ambush at Glover’s estae that night, Estios had remained distrustful. His every comment was laced with his suspicions. She just laughed off the hostility, but Sam worried. How could they all work together without trust?

  Who was he to talk? These days he had to weigh every word Dodger said, wondering if there was a new lie hidden among the flowery phrases. Then there was Estios and his crew. Chatteijee seemed innocuous enough, quiet and competent. O’Connor was the friendliest of the bunch, but she seemed to know Dodger from a long time ago. Who knew what that meant? Certainly Dodger did, but he wasn’t talking. Estios himself was a very cold fish. As much as he resented Hart, he seemed to resent Sam even more. Beneath the surface of politeness, Sam sensed that the tall elf was chafing under some kind of restraint, almost as if someone had ordered him to remain on relatively good terms with Sam. Perhaps someone had. As far as Sam knew, Estios was exclusively employed by Professor Laverty. That made Sam wonder what interest the professor had in the current situation. Just who could Sam trust?

  Himself, he supposed. Inu, too. But Inu was only a dog, and besides, he wasn’t here. In London, the elves with whom he hunted the druids were his only close contacts. The elves had shadow connections in the plex, almost all normal humans. Sam trusted most of those connections less than he trusted the elves, but he would be lost in the plex without them. Then again, without them, he would be on his way back to Seattle.

  A short series of taps reverberated faintly down the tunnel. Estios drew his weapon and faced toward the source before Sam had sorted out the echoes. There were familiar scents beneath the sewer stink. Feeling secure that Estios would handle any physical threat, Sam activated his astral senses and scanned the tunnel.

  The approaching aura was familiar, and comforting. It showed no sign of injury or emotional distress. A further probe revealed that she was not being followed.

  "Is this the whole party?" Hart asked as she arrived.

  "Where were you?" Estios snapped, scowling.

  She ignored his question. "Let’s go see Herzog."

  "I don’t like it," Estios said.

  "Do you like anything? You didn’t have to come."

  She brushed at a drip spot on the arm of her Scaterelli jacket. Her annoyed frown would seem to be directed at the spoiled fabric, but Sam knew better. Estios pressed.

  "We need not involve him in our affairs, Hart. You have compromised our security enough by sending Twist to him."

  "She hasn’t compromised anything, Estios. Herzog is just a teacher. You should be grateful f
or that; it’ll make me more valuable."

  "Learning from the gutter is worse than no learning."

  Hart laughed. "Learning is learning. I suggest that you keep your attitude to yourself. I don’t think our host will take kindly to your carping. If Herzog were here ..."

  "But Herzog is here."

  The new voice belonged to a bulky figure that emerged from the deeper shadows of the tunnel. Sam had smelled Herzog’s distinctive odor and had known that he was somewhere nearby, but the others, for all their darkness-piercing elven eyes, hadn’t seemed aware. Estios swung his weapon to bear and Hart tensed. The newcomer rumbled with amusement.

  "No fight today," he said.

  Herzog was big for a human, weighing more than many orks. Most of his mass was muscle and bone, hidden under a layer of smooth fat and a mound of patchwork clothes. He was unnaturally strong, a gift of nature boosted by his totem rather than by artificial enhancement. Despite his bulk and the array of fetishes festooning his garb, he moved almost silently as he stepped up to them.

  "Good evening, Herzog," Hart said. "I’m pleased to see you."

  "You have work for me."

  "Direct," Estios commented.

  "The night still grows, elf. I must be about my own work. If you find my manners abrupt, you need not deal with me."

  "Ignore tall, dark, and ornery, Herzog," Hart said. "We need your help."

  "To do?"

  "To get us going. Our probes are getting nowhere; our adversaries seem well prepared for our hermetic intrusions. I thought that your talents might offer a more productive approach."

  "Your adversaries are not mine."

  "They are everyone’s," Sam said.

  Herzog turned to Sam. "So. Why have you not done what the elf asks?"

  Sam didn’t want to answer. Had he been alone with Herzog he might have, but in front of Hart he felt inhibited. He didn’t want her to know how much he hated talking to Dog, how much he feared the irrationality of the spirit form’s essence. And he didn’t want her to know about that other presence that so terrified him.