by Mel Odom
“That change is coming. That your life will no longer be the same. That you must accept the loss of your old life, and embrace what is yet to be if you are going to survive.”
“Who—who are you?” Rachel had to struggle to keep her voice from cracking. “Where am I?”
“Where you are now is not important. It is what you do here that matters. I am a messenger. You have nothing to fear from me.” Raising an arm, it gestured at the world beyond the cave’s mouth. What looked like a cloak hung down from its shoulder and disappeared in the shadows of the cave. “What you have to fear lies out there.”
“What do I have to fear?”
“Those things that would kill you.”
“Why can’t I wake up?”
“Because sleep is necessary at this point. You must rest in order to be renewed.”
“Are you talking about Aztechnology? Are they who I’m supposed to be afraid of?” If that was the case, Rachel already feared the corp. Actually, she didn’t think she could be more fearful of it. Memory of the firefight in the Guatemalan caves had haunted her for however long she’d been asleep. Occasionally, she’d heard bits and pieces of conversations between Hawke and Flicker, and sometimes from Professor Fredericks as well. But none of that made any sense.
She wanted to turn back time, to when things were clear and simple. She wanted her life back, wanted to read musty tomes and sort through gigs of edata on pottery and botany and ancient peoples. She wanted history to be times that were long gone, that couldn’t hurt her.
She didn’t want whatever this was.
The thing turned its head and fixed her with its other eye. “No. Humans are a threat, but there are greater menaces you must be aware of.”
“Are you talking about the artifact?” Although the jewel intrigued her, Rachel would have gladly given it up. Well, maybe not gladly, but she would have traded it for control over her life.
“Cling to the artifact as it clings to you. It will give birth to you, Daughter. Only then will you be strong enough to take care of yourself. You will have powerful enemies awaiting you after the dreams. You will need to become powerful, too.”
“What are you talking about? What do you mean?”
“Now that you are revealed, you cannot hide.” Dark light glinted in the thing’s eyes. “You cannot hide here, and you cannot hide in that other world.”
“Where am I?”
“In the womb. Growing stronger.”
“How do I get back?”
“When you are strong enough, then you will go back. Until then—you must survive.” The thing unfurled curved wings and leaped for the mouth of the cave.
“Wait!” Rachel trailed after the creature. Her boots wobbled over broken pieces of rock and almost went out from under her. She regained her balance by placing a hand against the rough rock.
The creature leaned out into the sky and took flight centimeters beyond her reach. A dark shadow fell across it almost immediately, alerting her to the predator in the sky above.
A nightmarish cloud of pale corpse flesh floated right above the cave mouth. Putrid and bloated, it had dozens of arms and tentacles hanging from its lower half. Above that, a massive, bulbous blob held a horrific face that looked like it had been beaten into the fleshy physique. The features were childlike and the maw moved constantly, opening to expose jagged, broken teeth that poorly fit the huge mouth.
Awed, filled with razor-edged shards of fear, Rachel pulled back into the cave. She forgot about the winged messenger as the bloated form turned toward her. The face looked childlike, though stripped of innocence, but its two huge, staring eyes held dark malignance.
Waving its arms and tentacles, the bloated thing wheeled much more quickly than Rachel would have guessed. It swung on its axis and dove, keening like a horribly wounded thing as it closed on her.
In full flight now, Rachel hurried backwards, tripped, and hit the ground. She lifted her hands and feet to fend the thing off, but knew that would only delay the inevitable. It was going to devour her. Tears streamed from her eyes as she shivered in shock and terror.
Then, incredibly, the bloated thing filled the cave mouth and could go no farther. Realizing it was stuck, the creature screamed again, the horrible noise echoing throughout the cavern. Glistening hands and tentacles reached for Rachel, and she regained her senses just in time to scramble back to avoid capture.
Gathering her feet under her, not knowing where to go, she turned and fled into the darkness at the back of the cave.
CHAPTER Forty-FOUR
On the bed, Rachel Gordon suddenly arched her back and screamed through the oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth. The machines connected to her flatlined and went dark as she fought her restraints.
Seeing her distress, thinking the young woman was in her death throes, Hawke started forward. He didn’t know what he could do, but he had to do something.
Without getting out of her chair, Flicker put a hand against his chest with enough strength to get his attention. “Easy, omae. There’s nothing you can do.”
“She’s dying!” Hawke protested, but didn’t fight past Flicker’s barrier.
“No, she’s not.” Flicker removed her hand. “She’s done this before. A few times. If you touch her, that thing comes out to defend her. Trust me, you won’t enjoy the experience.” She touched the bruised swelling on the side of her face and turned her head to reveal scratches along her neck that looked like they’d been made by talons.
Abruptly, Rachel went limp and dropped back onto the bed. The machinery came back on with a chorus of chirps, and the readouts resumed functioning. As it did that, a team of nurses and a doctor filled the room, but they didn’t try to touch their patient either. Evidently they had learned things the hard way too, because a few of them also showed bumps, abrasions, and bruises. They waited for a little while, checked the machinery, and took their leave.
Hawke took a breath and tried to relax. Even a few hours later, he was still adrenaline-maxed from the debacle at the Hellstorm Club. “This happened before?”
“A few times.”
“What’s causing it?”
Flicker shook her head. “It’s nothing physiological. Whatever’s triggering this is coming from inside Rachel.”
On the bed, the young woman looked worn and pale. Her blood pressure had dropped.
“Whatever was holding her steady is losing its grip,” Flicker said. “Maybe it can’t keep up with the demands Rachel needs to fight whatever she’s battling.” She looked at Hawke. “We need some outside help. The doc here has some astral people. They’ve been able to monitor some of the activity going on in Rachel’s mind and body, but not all of it. None of them have seen anything quite like this.” She paused. “It’s almost like she’s possessed or something.”
Hawke rubbed at his chin tiredly. He’d been thinking the same thing. “Do they have any recommendations?”
“No.”
“I might know a guy.” Even as he thought that, Hawke recoiled from the idea. He’d dragged Flicker into this situation. He didn’t want to pull anyone else in.
“I think you should get him.”
“I don’t want to get anyone else involved.”
“Then you should get the doc to give her a lethal dose and end this.”
Hawke turned to stare at Flicker. She returned his gaze full measure. “I’m serious. For you. For me. And for her. One way or another, this needs to end.”
Hawke didn’t say anything.
“But you’re not going to do that, are you? Because killing innocents isn’t part of who you are.” Flicker’s small smile held no humor, only sadness.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Then you can leave her somewhere. Contact NeoNET or Aztechnology, and let them know where to find her. If you want, you could let them both know and let them fight over her.”
“No.”
Flicker nodded. “Because even if either of those corps know how to fix what’s wrong
with her, she might as well be dead. They’ll take what they want and jettison the rest as soon as they have it.”
Hawke knew that was the truth.
“You won’t kill her, and you won’t give her up. And every minute we just sit here without working toward resolving this situation is another minute we get closer to being in some corp’s crosshairs—and she gets closer to dying.”
Hawke knew she was definitely speaking the truth.
Flicker took his hand in hers. “We need help. That’s what it comes down to.”
Trying to think, Hawke searched her aquamarine gaze. “You know I’ve always worked with one or two runners at a time. Only for short times. That’s a rule I’ve had since I started in this biz.”
“I know. Stay small and hard to find. I remember. I’ve done that too, Hawke.”
“It’s what’s worked for us.”
She looked up at him and squeezed his hand. “It’s not working anymore. This . . . whatever it is . . . is too big. If we’re going to deal with it, we’ve got to get bigger. For starters, we need someone who can get inside Rachel’s head, in spite of that artifact. Or just help us understand that fraggin’ thing better.”
Hawke wanted to just turn away and leave, get some alone time and get his thoughts together. Better than that, he wanted to take Flicker and start running.
“If we run,” the rigger said, as if reading his mind, “we’ll never stop. However this works out with Rachel and the corps looking for her, they’ll still want to bury us because we know more than they want us to. Or they’ll think we do. So we’ve got to deal with them from a position of power. The only leverage we have is helping Rachel.”
Hawke looked at the young woman in the bed, saw the pain on her face, but maintained his silence. His thoughts spun and collided, returning again and again to the idea that he’d filled out their death certificates, and the corps were closing in to sign off on them.
“We know Aztechnology is involved,” Flicker went on. “NeoNET. And there’s a third party, someone the Johnson was working for. He’s dead, and whoever he was working for is still out there, expecting us to come through with Rachel. But even if we could find out who hired us, I don’t think we can trust them.”
“Neither do I.” Hawke breathed out. “Like I said, I know a guy. He’s wiz with astral stuff, and he lives for problems that don’t have simple answers.”
Flicker nodded and smiled. “Yeah, but we’re going to need more. We need a decker, somebody who can get into the Matrix and see what’s there that none of these people want us looking at.”
“I know someone like that, too.” Hawke took another breath and tried to relax as his personal paradigm shifted. He couldn’t go back to what he was. He’d changed the minute he’d accepted this run. He just hadn’t known it at the time. “We’ll need more muscle, too. Some cyber and some mage stuff, because this is gonna get really nasty before it’s over. And there’s another woman, someone who might be good with the cultural history that’s probably attached to this artifact.” He paused. “I can get us a team, but nothing’s ever gonna be the same.”
“I knew that before you did.” Flicker released his hand. “Get whoever you need. Bring them here and let’s deal with this. It’s the only way we’re getting out of this alive.”
On the other side of the room, Rachel Gordon arched up again, this time floating completely off the bed, and nearly pulling the heavy unit from the floor. The med machinery around her winked out.
Hawke resisted the urge to go to the young woman’s assistance. Black lightning flashed in her hair as it billowed out from her face.
“I’ve got this,” Flicker said in a tight voice. “I don’t know how long I have it, but you need to go.”
“Take care of yourself ’til I get back. I’ll send people as I get ’em.” Hawke left the room and didn’t look back. The game lay ahead now, and he was staking everything on his ability to get the results that would save all of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-Five
Six hours later, traveling under a SIN he’d “borrowed” for the day, Hawke debarked from a flight to Louis Armstrong International Airport, met the gypsy cab he’d arranged for, and rode into the major smuggling hub of New Orleans. Goods from foreign countries came through here into the CAS, and other goods went out from every North American country to the rest of the world.
He surveyed the landscape while the cab crawled through heavy traffic toward the French Quarter. He wouldn’t get into the neighborhood, but he’d get close enough. He didn’t intend to let the Middle Eastern cab driver know what his true destination was anyway. That would be foolish.
Hawke liked New Orleans. He’d worked here often, usually on in and out runs. Work that needed a new face. With his skin color, he could pass as just about any race in the sprawl. He enjoyed the wild times here, the food and the people. The only other place he liked so well was Brazil during Carnival season.
Once the cab let him out on Canal Street, Hawke walked into the Quarter. On the average city street—especially somewhere like New Orleans—he fit in everywhere in jeans, a pullover shirt, and a hoodie.
Outside the Quarter proper, Hawke stopped at a brightly colored food truck with MR. WIGGLES painted on the side in half-meter tall letters. The mascot, a pink and purple soap bubble creature, showed a happy grin with big teeth.
Hawke scanned the LED menu board posted beside the serving window, waited for a half-dozen customers before him to get their food, then ordered spicy wings and grilled broccoli.
A matronly woman pushed a credslot toward him.
“Herve around?” he asked.
The woman didn’t blink. “No. Herve not here today.”
“Too bad. I heard he had a little friend he wanted to show me.” Hawke slotted his credstick, knew the total was going to be for a lot more than just the food and drink, and took the bulb and Styrofoam tray the woman handed to him.
The tray was warm in his hand as he walked to the alley behind the food truck. He stood and ate, watching the street and sidewalk traffic, knowing he was being watched. By the time he finished the wings and broccoli, as good as he remembered, a ten-year-old boy on a bicycle rolled past, quickly handing off a pizza box he carried in his handlebar basket.
Hawke took the handoff in a smooth turn, pulling the flat box to his chest and walking on down the alley. He stopped beside an overflowing Dumpster and opened the box. The katars inside weren’t as good as his personal weapons, but they’d do. They even came with a holster that fit over his back. He removed the hoodie, pulled the blades on, and slid the Cavalier Evanator into a specially constructed holster at the small of his back. With the loose hoodie back on, everything was nicely concealed.
The people at Mr. Wiggles offered a customized full meal deal for traveling mercs. Hawke had used them before.
Not feeling so naked now, he walked toward the Quarter, taking his time so he wouldn’t arrive ’til after the sun set and the club doors opened.
By the time he reached Bourbon Street, the nightly party that was New Orleans was in full swing. Crowds of locals and tourists rubbed shoulders along the sidewalks and streets where traffic had all but came to a standstill. Jugglers and dancers performed for nuyen slotted by passersby. Many people wore masks and costumes. Blues music enhanced by wiz synthesizers blared out over everything.
Laissez les bon temps roulez.
Let the good times roll.
In spite of the tension boiling through his belly, Hawke smiled. New Orleans was one of those sprawls where he couldn’t help but feel alive. Of course, every time he’d been here, he’d ended up running about two steps ahead of death.
Hawke threaded through the crowd, which was difficult for someone with personal space issues. He almost had his pocket picked four times: twice by kids, once by a clumsy guy whose fingers Hawke broke when the guy tried pulling a knife, and once by an old woman who was a lot faster than she looked. Hawke didn’t take any of it personally. They were just stree
t dips getting by. They’d just picked the wrong mark to lift from.
In one of the alleys off Bourbon Street, not far from a voodoo shop watched over by two unblinking zombie heads mounted on the door, Hawke reached the doorway to an inner courtyard. A sigil in the form of a skeletal snake occupied the space above the solid wood door at the entrance.
Not liking what was about to happen, Hawke reached up and tapped the snake’s head. The thing moved swiftly, pulling back and sinking its fangs into the back of his hand. He ignored the pain, didn’t move, and let the animated skull drink its fill. If he hadn’t, the snake would have pumped him full of a paralytic and sounded an alarm.
When the snake was satisfied, it pulled back and lay along the wall above the door again. Bones clicked into place, and a lock somewhere inside the door thunked.
Cautiously, Hawke placed his hand on the door and pushed. The man he’d come to see was careful, and was always changing up the spells that protected his home. Hawke couldn’t even imagine trying to live somewhere consistently. That trait alone had almost made him cross the man off the list of runners he did business with.
But Remy “Snakechaser” Bordelon was New Orleans born and bred, and he’d led two lives there, neither one far from the other. He’d joined the police and became a homicide detective, but never strayed from his roots as a voodoo practitioner. When he’d gotten kicked off the force for something he’d done but the internal affairs division couldn’t prove, he’d continued his investigations as a private detective, and rose to the rank of houngan asogwe, high priest. Now he worked both the mean streets and the astral side of New Orleans.
Hawke continued into the courtyard. Low wattage lights punched holes in some of the shadows throughout the ten-meter by ten-meter space. Flowering plants and shrubs filled the space with pollen-heavy perfume. The stone brick floor lay even and straight, all original materials from more than three hundred years ago. Spanish, French, German, and Italian feet had trod those stones in times past. Sometimes Snakechaser said he could almost reach out and touch the people, back through all those years.
