by Jack Conner
“... and if you’ve seen this man and woman, you are to report immediately to the police. Again, their descriptions are as follows. The woman is blond and slim, with blue eyes and ...”
Avery’s blood ran cold. He lowered his head as he walked. Layanna’s hand tightened on his. After what seemed like an eternity, they stepped out into the night.
“Too close,” he breathed.
She had taken a break between her first eelfish and her second, but now she removed the second half of her feast from its sack and began tearing into it. Watching her, he felt sickened all over again.
“You know where going?” she said between chews.
“We’re in the Tangle now. Almost there. Just a little more and we can rest.”
“No need rest. Am strong now.”
He nodded, sweat beading his brow, his breath coming in labored gasps. “You may not need it, but you’re not the only one here.”
He led the way down narrow streets and alleys, wishing he had some weapon, any weapon. He hadn’t wanted to take a chance on sneaking a gun past Brunt security. Now he was defenseless. And there was another worry, too. What will Janx and the others say when they realize how important Layanna is? Avery had not told them what he believed her to be: he couldn’t afford for them to balk. But there was no hiding it now, not with the city shut down. What would they do?
The alleys stank of rot and refuse, and though there were buildings to all sides somehow the chill wind found the channels between and howled down them, driving against Avery and tugging him backward. Composed and flushed, Layanna finished her grisly meal and tossed the eelfish remains in a metal trashcan. Feral cats and batkin hissed at each other for the scraps.
Finally they reached the rear entrance to Janx’s tenement. Inside the wind couldn’t get at them, and Avery breathed easier. When he did he tasted onions and cabbage heavy on the air, along with mold and mildew. They made their way through leaning, sagging corridors with paint peeling in strips off the walls, past heavily bolted doors, or doors that were open and dark and sinister, past apartments thumping with music or the screech of fighting families. Behind a too-thin door, a couple rutted noisily. Roaches crawled across chipped cement floors, and bare electric bulbs flickered when they weren’t out altogether.
Janx’s rooms waited on the eleventh floor. When Avery at last knocked on the door, which was more massive, metal, and heavily fortified than any of the others he’d seen, he was breathless and drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking to him. Why couldn’t this building have a functioning lift? Layanna, by contrast, appeared perfectly at ease, only mildly winded. Perhaps he should try diseased eelfish.
Locks scraped and shot. Janx’s door swung open with a metal creak.
“Finally,” a voice said. “We were beginning to worry about you.”
Muirblaag, newly moistened and glimmering, ushered them into Janx’s room. He wore only boxing trunks and shoes. Layanna eyed him with interest, his crested head, fishy skin, whitish mouth, symmetrical design.
Muirblaag returned her look, but it was not idle curiosity in his eyes. “Well, hello there.”
“Hello.”
Muirblaag closed the door behind them and bolted some of its many bolts, somehow contriving not to take his eyes off her for a moment.
Avery didn’t care. “I need a drink.”
Janx’s large quarters sprawled in every direction, both dismal and regal. Shabby walls with mortared-up cracks were hung with priceless pictures, some oils, some abstracts, many originals by prominent artists, none of them matching. Plush, expensive chairs perched beside rotting, sagging ones. Massive urns squatted against idols and statues inset with gems and diamonds. One particularly vulgar statue depicted two nymphs cavorting with a satyr; the water issued from a very lewd place. Against the wall, an antique cabinet bar hunched under a thousand cheap and gaudy knickknacks collected from countless ports. Janx displayed some of the best taste and absolute worst taste that Avery had ever seen, all side by side. How much of the loot had been stolen, how much bought with stolen or conned money, and how much with Janx’s considerable semi-legitimate earnings through whaling and prizefighting Avery couldn’t guess. Judging by the excess, he was quite sure Janx could have afforded a penthouse somewhere, but he knew just as certainly that Janx would never be comfortable or happy there. Here in the Tangle he was a hero, a champion, and though he lived in a bleak, murky warren, it was a bleak, murky warren adorned with the treasure of kings.
Movement in a shadowy region that Avery thought must be the kitchen, redolent of spices and garlic.
Janx himself stepped out, smiling boldly. Light from a dozen expensive lanterns lit his thousand tattoos, bald head, and scarred, nose-less face. “You made it!” To Avery’s shock, the big man embraced him in a crushing hug.
“I—well—thanks—”
The hug may have been a ruse, however, to allow Janx to grip Layanna in an even more clinging embrace. She accepted it, raising her eyebrows at Avery.
“We need to leave—” Avery began.
Janx wasn’t paying attention. Still laughing, he guided them to dusty but expensive chairs and supplied them with fluids. It was beer, not whisky, but it was an excellent porter, thick and black, and Avery sipped his gratefully.
Hildra paced, smoking, her monkey jumping up and down in shared agitation. Byron the little violinist leaned against the wall, arms folded. Holdren, the large black man, shot balls in a desultory fashion at the billiards table.
All shifted their attention to the red-headed Jaimesyn when he stood up from the radio. Screwdriver in hand, he said, “There, that should—”
A burst of static filled the room, then a voice.
All leaned tensely forward, listening:
“... and the manhunt will continue through the night until these fugitives are caught. New details are just now emerging. A high official in the Navy has declared that an Octunggen spy embedded in the naval science community has broken loose an Octunggen prisoner. The woman is actually a secret Octunggen project recovered by our intelligence operatives. She has been contaminated by poisons that could, if released, wipe out the city. ‘If they are not found and returned to the Navy posthaste, Octung will have a new source of mass violence to wage against us’, says Minister Sorqin, head of the Navy Expenditures Subcommittee.”
“One of Sheridan’s agents, no doubt,” Avery said. “She’s obviously colored information, or perhaps—”
Holdren shushed him.
“The Navy is hard on the hunt,” crackled the voice on the radio. “When found, the fugitives shall be dealt with severely. To aid the hunt, here are their descriptions once again ...”
Avery rose and turned the radio off. “I think we get the idea.”
For a long moment there was silence. Avery could almost feel the tension radiating off those in the room, and he knew it was his fault. Now it comes, he thought. I should have been honest with them from the beginning. But what if they’d refused to help?
From outside screeched a siren. It rose in volume, and those in the apartment tensed further. The siren faded, but they did not relax.
“We’re in deep shit, Doctor,” said Hildra.
“I didn’t sign on for this,” Byron said. “No one did.”
Janx stepped forward, frowning, severe. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go, Doc. You said we were only supposed to hide out a saboteur—”
“I never actually said she was only a—” Avery said.
“The shitting Navy’s after us!” said Byron. “Admiral Haggarty!”
“This is bullshit,” said Jaimesyn. “We were just supposed to hide out some fugitive, not bring down the wrath of the whole fucking country.”
“Should we even be in the same room with her?” Byron edged backward, away from Layanna. “I mean, if she’s some kinda poison bomb, we shouldn’t even be breathing the same air.”
Avery raised his hands, placating. “That was just a cover story. They obviously don’t
want to say that she was their secret project, not Octung’s. She is not a poison bomb.”
“Then what is she?” Janx bunched his jaws. His hard eyes swung to Layanna. “It’s time.”
“No. It’s not,” Avery said. “In fact, we—”
“Quiet,” Janx said, shooting him a stern look. The whaler returned his attention to Layanna, and so did everyone else, staring at her expectantly. Beads of sweat clung to their brows. Their faces drew tight. Byron looked on the verge of snapping.
Layanna gazed back at them mildly, impossible to read.
“Tell us who you are, woman,” Janx said, in a voice that could have leveled mountains. “I mean now.”
“Come on,” said Muirblaag gently. “We’re all friends here.”
“I ain’t friends with nobody who brings the Navy down on my head,” Janx said. “Don’t you realize what this means? It means if they connect the Doc to us, our lives are over.” In a rage, he kicked a kingly lamp, and it smashed into glittering fragments. Electric sparks flared, then died. Seething, Janx balled his fists at his sides and looked as if he were trying to find something else to smash. His eyes settled on Layanna. “Who are you?”
“Yeah,” said Hildra.
“Fuckin’ aye,” said Holdren, setting the pool cue down and slapping a fist into the palm of his hand. A revolver showed in a holster under his armpit.
“We don’t have time—”Avery started.
The others exclaimed loudly, drowning him out, demanding explanations, demanding to know what they had gotten into.
Silently, Layanna met each gaze in turn. At first she didn’t seem inclined to speak, but then she gathered herself and said, in garbled Ghenisan, “Dr. Avery you should to listen. We now go. I cannot tell whole story. Later.”
“Godsdamn you, you better start talking,” growled Janx.
She knitted her brow. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You know what is extradimensional, yes? Ultra-planar?”
They exchanged looks.
“Why?” Byron said.
“I am ... you will believe this not, is why I would say nothing ... but I am extradimensional being.”
“What?” said Jaimesyn.
“There are ... others. My friends. We are hunted. We can stop war.”
Janx scowled deeply, throwing his face into shadow. He threw a glance at Avery, who nodded.
“How?” Janx said.
“No time,” Layanna said. “But can it we do. With help.”
“Now this is some major shit,” said Holdren.
“See?” Muirblaag drawled, coming to stand beside her. “I knew there was a good explanation.”
“Fuck the explanation,” Byron said, pushing himself off from the wall. “Fuck the war. Our lives are ruined.”
“They will be ruined worse if we don’t get a move on,” Avery said quietly. “While we’ve been arguing, the Navy will have been tracking us. We encountered many people on the way here. Some have doubtlessly heard our descriptions and called in. I suggest we leave as soon as possible. Now. Right now.”
Janx glared from him to Layanna. “I—”
The door exploded inwards, and a phalanx of armored troops burst in.
Chapter 11
Avery wheeled to see the troopers enter, shields carried before them, a moving wall of barricades and weapons. They were Navy shock troops.
It all happened very fast.
Byron scampered for the window, presumably to crawl out to a fire escape. A gun roared, blood sprayed from his thigh, and he collapsed screaming.
Both Jaimesyn and Holdren carried guns, and apparently on instinct they drew them, ducked behind furniture—Jaimesyn behind the couch, Holdren behind the billiards table—and fired. Sparks flashed on police shields and whined off helmets. Troopers leveled automatic weapons at couch and table—and fired. And fired. Bullets drilled through furniture and riddled Jaimesyn and Holdren, flinging them back like rag dolls, broken and ravaged and spraying blood. They fell amidst red pools and twitched mindlessly, dead or dying.
“Don’t move!” the unit captain shouted to the others. “Raise your hands and don’t fucking move!”
The troops swarmed into the apartment and surrounded them.
Despite the warnings, Janx grabbed a lantern and tried to smash it over a trooper’s head, but half a dozen others slammed electric prods into his ribs and rifle butts into his skull. Screaming insults, he fell under their blows. Muirblaag succeeded in smashing two of the troopers’ heads together and rendering them unconscious before he was driven to the floor.
Avery raised his hands and kept quiet. So did Hildra and Layanna. Hildra’s monkey screeched in fear and huddled tightly against her back, shaking.
Police surrounded them, shoving guns in their faces. Someone secured Byron.
“Nice goin’, Doc,” Hildra said.
Avery couldn’t meet her eyes. He tried to contain the beating of his heart, the swelling and shrinking of his lungs. Then he heard a familiar voice and glanced up to see the tides of troops parting like a black sea, light glinting on shields and helmets. And, there between the parting waves, Admiral Sheridan strolled toward him, polished and gleaming in her official uniform, peaked beret slanted rakishly.
“Thought you could escape, did you, you traitor?” she said.
He found his voice, but it was thin and tight. “I’m not the traitor.”
“Do tell.”
He started to say more, but knew it would make no difference. Sheridan would just have him silenced, and painfully.
She marched lion-like back and forth, eyeing her prisoners as they were dragged into line before her, even bleeding and mewling Byron. Janx and Muirblaag were hauled up, as well. They prodded at their swollen faces and bruised ribs. Janx spat out a silver tooth.
At last Sheridan’s eyes settled on Layanna. “I very much look forward to speaking with you later.”
Surprisingly, Layanna did not look intimidated. “I do not think so, you bitch,” she said in Octunggen.
Sheridan’s eyes widened slightly, and she started to respond, but then thought better of it. Likely she didn’t want to reveal how fluent she was in the enemy language.
“Why don’t we continue the conversation at Fort Brunt?” she said. Her eyes lingered on Avery’s, looking almost apologetic. “This was ... unnecessary, Doctor.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“I wish that were so.” Her voice sounded genuinely sad. “The only solace I can offer is that you won’t suffer long.”
Because you fear what I might say. Good. Then there were still decent people in the Navy. They hadn’t all been corrupted. And at least it meant he’d die quickly. But Layanna ... Avery had no doubt Sheridan would get her own men to interrogate Layanna. If Layanna had any secrets, Sheridan would get them.
“Take them,” Sheridan told the troop captain. He nodded and barked orders to his people, who took out handcuffs and electric prods and closed in.
This is where it ends, Avery thought. He and the others would be dragged into black pits beneath Fort Brunt, tortured and put to ignominious death. But he had not reckoned on one thing, which was the entire reason for the whole affair in the first place.
Layanna was not a normal woman.
And, as soldiers laid their hands on her, she revealed exactly how.
She tried to be nice about it.
Her eyes narrowed, her voice hardened, and she said, in Ghenisan so that the troops could understand her, “Get. Hands. Off.”
They laughed. Handcuffs caught the light.
“Touch. And. Die,” she growled.
They forced her hands behind her back and tried to shove her to her knees. Her face screwed up in anger and effort. It turned red, and sweat popped out on her cheeks and brow. The very air around her seemed to change, to ripple, and kneeling nearby, Avery felt an electric charge. His hair lifted.
Sheridan, frowning, stepped back. Her hand reached for the pistol at her hip.
; “Don’t do it,” she said, jerking her gun free. It was longer than it should have been, strange and bulbous. Avery, long accustomed to Navy side-arms, knew this was no normal service piece. “I’m prepared.”
Layanna did not give her the chance to use the weapon, whatever it was, for, just then, the air around Layanna blossomed with strange colors, scents and sounds, ammonia and purple and the flash of sunlight on alien waters. Suddenly, the strangeness exploded outward with an oceanic roar, and as if a great wind had struck them everyone standing around Layanna flew backward and hit the floor sliding.
Sheridan, too, struck the floor, and when she did her gun leapt from her hand and spun across the cement.
Avery, gasping, found a chair and struggled to pull himself to his feet. As he did, he turned back to Layanna to see that she was only getting started. With the air around her rippling in strange colors, lavender, purple, white, she ceased to be the woman he thought he knew. Her shape remained the same, but overlapping it, superimposing the image of her standing there—arms flung out, face uplifted—spread the shape of some thing very much like an amoeba. Shapeless and horrible, yet beautiful at the same time, it oozed out from her, with her in the center, bathed in jellyfish-white. Toward the edges the form superimposing her turned purplish and lavender. Its thrusting pseudopods ended in starfish-like tips, and from these tips writhed fringes of beautiful tentacles and flagella, slightly white, slightly pink. As the pseudopods spread out, sometimes brushing up against walls, toppling furniture, sometimes passing through material objects altogether, the fringing tentacles coiled and grasped with great dexterity.
One lassoed about Avery’s chest and picked him up. The reek of ammonia and ozone filled his nose, making him dizzy. Other tentacles gathered up Byron and Hildra. Janx and Muirblaag grabbed up lamps or broken chair legs and leapt back, away from it. Layanna’s amoeba form swelled ... and swelled ... filling up the room.
Sheridan scrabbled toward her gun, which lay in a corner. She had to scramble around her troops, who had been flung back, and over toppled furniture.
