Upon having initiated Delphi's request, and thereby securing her immediate safety, Jester then allowed himself the sweet luxury of collapse as he carefully laid face down in the grass.
"Egad!" exclaimed another soldier of Borin's rank, who only now noticed Huey's massacre. This drew the attention of others, prompting a crowd to form about the spectacle until Borin waved them on.
"Could you take care of Huey?" he asked the first soldier.
"Of course. Come along then, young man. Let's get you cleaned up." He held his hand out, and Huey took it without reservation. They made their way to the river with the smaller figure gently guiding the behemoth by one finger, which was as much as could be grasped. "I say, ole boy. Have you ever considered an exciting career in the service of the Arbitos guard?"
"Huey live wit hims Nanna and Tuda and Dobin and Ezy and Nere and…"
"Umm…yes, quite."
Digger looked up from feeding and bounded after them, pausing only once to snatch up the leg bone Huey had discarded. It already had a number of cracks and fractures. The marrow would be easily reached.
Borin started in Jester's direction, but instead of stopping, he just stepped over him. He had noticed yet another item of far greater interest.
"Hey!" Jester shouted.
Borin paid no attention. There, in the tall grass, was his duffle bag. He opened it quickly, and dumped the contents on the ground. He rummaged through his belongings until he finally came to the Talisman. "Ahh, there you are," he issued with a sigh of relief.
"Excuse me!" exclaimed Jester indignantly.
He re-packed his duffle, swung it over his shoulder, and walked over to Jester, stooping to examine his injuries. "That scratch on your head will need tending, as will the wound from the arrow. Would you like me to remove it?"
"Don't you think we should wait for a Cleric?" Jester asked nervously.
"Why?" Borin asked quizzically.
"I've got a blasted arrow in my back! You can't just go ripping it out! You might damage something vital!"
Borin looked again at the arrow, returned his attention to Jester's face, and then looked down at the ground.
Observing this reaction, Jester became alarmed. "Is it serious?" he asked, hoping the arrow had not hit his spine, or some organ.
Another soldier had come to offer assistance just as Jester asked the question. He immediately burst out laughing.
Jester looked up at her unbelievingly. "Oh, ha, ha! Very funny! I could be facing death itself, while you…" He stopped himself, as Borin, who while still looking down now turned away, though not before Jester caught his expression. He too was laughing. Not overtly so, but for him that was as good as booming laughter. In all the time from Port Dwergus, to the Tarot camp, he had not once witnessed Borin even crack a smile. All things considered, this was very odd behavior. At the same time, there was an eerie familiarity to this entire situation. An unexpected, but thoroughly emphatic understanding suddenly came to him.
***
She lay perfectly still, just as she had been placed. The Dis'Errant's deadly touch might have finished her, had she not instinctively feigned death for a second time.
Fortunately, she had only absorbed about half of what she knew Crimsin to be capable of doing. It was a risky ploy on her part, considering that she had only just played that card moments earlier. Even so, Crimsin was no fool. He might have seen through her ruse, if the Ogre hadn't stepped in.
Her hood covered her face well enough to enable her to avoid detection while she observed these people. She needed to determine their intentions before making her presence known. Maybe they would help her. Maybe they would kill her. All she had to go on was the agreed representation of a Trickster. Yes, she had decided he was in fact just that. Who but a Trickster could have accomplished what he had on such short notice, and with no legitimate weapons, save an Ogre, a wolf, and a one eyed Rogue?
On top of everything, he had orchestrated the entire sequence of events with a precision of timing the like of which she had neither seen, nor heard tell of. Then, when it appeared all was lost, in charged the Arbitos soldiers, right on cue.
It was the general consensus among all Rogue guild chapters that the art of the true Trickster had died out almost two-and-three-quarter eons past, save among a small contingent of followers within certain primitive tribes of Pixie who were indigenous only to remote areas of the Pi'xylem forests. Even so, no one had ever been able to establish a viable form of communication with these creatures. They had no language, or discernible intellect. Pixies were generally considered to Elves as Primates were to Round-ears.
All that really remained of the art were a few vague passages of text from a tome written before any true recording of history. Yet here was this Half-elf. He was certainly no Pixie, though his skill was undeniable.
She recalled her studies of the old tome. Most of what was not already crumbled to dust was far too faded to read. There was a cryptic passage on the inside leaf that had survived the ages, or at least in part. She recalled the words that were decipherable. To jest with fate , she thought. Is it possible?
She watched him closely, studying his graceful style of deception. Just look at him, she thought. Even now, he manages to utilize a minor injury to project a false image. He has both of those simpletons convinced that he is naught but a buffoon.
***
"It's only a flesh wound," Borin assured him.
"I don't care!"
"It would be over with very quickly," offered the other soldier in soft and reassuring tones while inching forward slowly.
"I said, back off!"
***
How had they responded so quickly? No sooner had he sounded the security alarm than they began to show up. At first, in groups of two and three, and then five and ten, and all were bearing clearance badges, specific to the I.B.O.T Lab. Within half an hour the entire facility was crawling with people he had never even seen before. They, on the other hand, had seemed to know quite a bit, both about the project in general, and Kwibee himself.
After being escorted to, and then locked within his own conference room, Orval had been allowed to represent his case as best he could. This included an in-depth explanation, far more comprehensive than any ever heard by Hereford. Unfortunately, every time he had ventured to assert how delicate the situation had become, the Specialists, or Hacks as he thought of them, would remind him that it was not his place to offer conjecture.
Ultimately, he had relented. There was little else for him to do. They were given a complete rundown on every aspect of the program's academics. It was just as he had always feared. Government Hacks are very efficient. They are highly proficient at reverse engineering, but their ability to comprehend in terms of projected dynamics was limited at best. Then again, if their minds weren't confined within the proverbial box, then they wouldn't be Hacks in the first place.
As soon as they were satisfied that Orval had imparted everything they considered relevant, he had simply been dismissed, as if he were nothing but a minor element, no longer of use to them.
As he drove, Orval replayed all of this in his mind. He kept hoping to find an alternative: some solution to this catastrophe that might salvage his career without jeopardizing lives. To his dismay, he kept arriving at the same conclusion. No matter what his chances of reasoning with the military, he couldn't afford to place himself above the lives of so many.
He pulled over to the side of the road. When he killed the engine, the silence that followed was an unexpected relief. He briefly rested his forehead on the steering wheel, simply enjoying the quiet solitude. It would be so easy to… Don't! he told himself. Move it, before you fall asleep!
He sat up. Pushing his mind back onto the task at hand, he withdrew the last file report he had run before being asked to exit the building. If it had been in hard copy, it would have been several inches thick. Fortunately, he had been able to download the information to a PDA. He was still amazed he hadn't been caug
ht with it. He supposed they simply considered themselves too intimidating to be opposed.
He went over the possible candidates one last time. He had chosen this city for several reasons. First, for its close proximity to the lab, and also because of its dense population of players. Both factors would prove crucial, both in his ability to avoid military notice, and for the best available selection of connections.
A large number were immediately ruled out as they didn't have voice-recognition packages. That meant no microphones. Anyone caught within IBOT would necessarily have had a system equipped with a microphone employing the implanted technology.
Many others were ruled out due to slower connections. These people were just as susceptible to DIT as anyone on the larger bandwidth, but the connections would be passive. This would make it impossible to remain undetected.
After excluding a number of other groups for various reasons, he had narrowed the selection to a mere thirty-eight targets. Of these, he narrowed the selection down to only those within a one-quarter mile radius of the local phone company, and then the least populated section of that radius, thus insuring the best possible bandwidth. This dropped the candidates down to twelve.
One among that group had a wireless connection. Admittedly, it was not quite as stable under ordinary circumstances, but with certain enhancements, it would be safe enough. There are a number of ways to utilize the local trunk line to augment a wireless connection so as to remain invisible. Invisibility was a most attractive feature.
Any Hacker worth his salt would know this. Fortunately, most phone company drones don't. Orval's definition of Hacker differed dramatically from that of Hack. One was an innovative Maverick. The other simply fell into that same category as any of the drones currently occupying his research facility.
He read the full residential report, including the individual dossiers on each of the two residences. The game subscription was solely in the husband's name, which placed him as the probable target. Good. A woman will be more likely to cooperate, he thought, circling the name and address. He then unfolded the city map to get his bearing. He started the engine, pulled back out onto the highway, and checked his watch. There went another fifteen minutes.
As he passed the Tulsa City limit sign, it occurred to him that he had no idea of what to say when he got there. He held a number of medical degrees, including several in the field of psychology. Surely he could handle one distraught housewife.
The adventure continues, in the second book of the four comprising the series. That work, entitled Rendering Nirayel: Stepping on Arbitos , by Nathan P. Cardwell, will soon be available at DDP.
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Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Page 15
