by Jean Rabe
The sidewalk emptied. People darted into the nearest doors and pressed their faces to the windows. She saw a lumper take cover under an overhang and fiddle with a comm.
Never before had she heard…nothing. The absence of any sound—she couldn’t even hear herself breathe—was eerie, and she shuddered with a fear that made her teeth hurt.
“Get inside, Keebs. Now! Move move move!”
Mordred’s urging propelled her through the nearest door, a chemist’s shop that already had a dozen people inside hunkering between the shelves of unguents and pills, nervously fidgeting and talking to each other—with no sound coming out. Ninn wedged herself between two middle-aged orks at the very front and looked out the window with them, seeing the sidewalk and the businesses across the street—a trendy clothing store next to a resale shop next to a spring rolls dive next to the most expensive steakhouse in the Cross. Not a soul within her sight remained outside.
Her ears might not work, but her other senses were fine. She smelled the warring colognes the orks wore, pine air freshener, a burst of foulness…someone had farted, a serious SBD. She felt the roughness of an ork’s bare arm pressed against hers; he had some dermal plating. The other ork wore a flannel shirt, odd for the warmth of Australia’s summer, but he appeared frail, like he might be a geezer that needed the extra layer.
The sky had darkened in the passing of a few moments, looking like midnight instead of mid-afternoon. Lights flickered across the street and in the chemist’s. She looked up and saw a pattern to the flashes, like Morse code. Her smartlink sputtered and sent painful little jolts, and she mentally shut it down, cutting Mordred off in mid-sentence about “bad mana rain.” Her cybereye throbbed, and she shut it down, too, relying on her natural eye. Fortunately, elves enjoyed low-light vision. It helped her pick out details in the dark.
She didn’t need the gun to tell her Sydney’s mana cloud was going to throw down something awful. The orks jostled for a better look, and she pushed them back, glaring and getting more breathing room. Ninn suddenly tasted peppermint and smelled ozone, watched as pink lightning flared and all the power went out. It was like being dropped into a very deep cave…she knew what that was like, visiting the Mark Twain Cave once in Hannibal, Missouri, when she was a kid. Blackest black coupled with the utter silence. So black her low-light vision was useless. Was this like death? Was she dead? Was she one more victim of Sydney’s blasted magical storm and she floated along toward the afterlife? She pinched herself—she felt that. Not dead yet.
Then the lightning came in slow motion, illuminating the street outside with a dancehall strobe effect. The rain came heavy, she could feel that intensity in her bones, vibrations skittering through the floor tile and agitating her fellow lookieloos. Big, fat drops that shot down rapid like machine gun fire; hail in the mix now, hard enough to crack the bricks in the sidewalk, little pieces of stone shooting up. Some of the hail had shapes—serpentine like snakes, ovals, cylinders, polyhedrons, headless dolls, and fusilli twists.
Then a mist appeared at ground level, maybe fog, maybe smoke, maybe it didn’t matter; it was pale gray and undulated seductively, dancing to music she couldn’t hear. Dance? The Aborigines called Sydney’s massive mana storm cloud their version of the Great Ghost Dance.
She called it hell.
Some of the misty tendrils slipped under a gap in the chemist’s front door, and sent the people farther back into the store. Ninn shivered, and not from her escalating fear. The air seeping in with the mist was cold; she felt goosebumps sprout all over as she pressed closer to the window, which felt like ice. Chicago, she thought, ice skaters in the park.
When the pink lightning pulsed again and again it revealed the presence of wind, and if there were any sound, Ninn knew it would be piteously wailing. She felt the building shake from the blast of air, watched a man fly by the window, the lumper she’d seen earlier, arms flapping madly, like he was trying to gain some measure of control, careening into a lamppost and continuing out of range. Objects followed him, looking broken and garish in the flickering pink lightning—a bench, a few trash bins, a stray cat that cartwheeled out of sight, followed by a burnt orange Blitzen—a combat bike that must have belonged to a collector, and that was tossed as easily as if it were a toy.
The storm went on and on, minutes became what must have been an hour—or more. Her legs cramped from standing in one spot, so she shifted back and forth on the balls of her feet, did a few knee bends. As she did, she noticed the orks shuffling around in place, the old one rubbing his calf muscles. Her bones hurt, her muscles ached like she’d run a marathon…something in the mana was playing havoc with her augmentations.
The hail grew larger, bouncing up above the thickening layer of mist. A chunk the size of a troll’s fist slammed into the chemist’s window. The duraglass held, but a web of cracks raced through it, making it appear that Ninn was looking out through a child’s kaleidoscope. The ache in her body deepened. The orks retreated, leaving her as the only soul against the window. She could feel breath against the back of her neck, realized somebody was using her as a shield.
Ninn held her spot, enduring the pain from her implants—like she’d gone under the knife without anesthetic—certain another hour had passed, and her muscles too sore to lift her chrono to see the time. Chrono’s likely fritzed, anyway, she thought, with all that mana playing games and doing an EMP boogie.
Still, she remained transfixed by the horrid, arcane tableau. A small, uprooted tree shot by the window just as the rain and hail came sideways now, perfectly parallel to the walk. More lightning skittered, a chaotic rhythm of bright pink flashes that showed the cloud had turned blood red…something she’d seen only once before. The thunder was stronger, not that she could hear it. But the vibrations were more noticeable against the bottoms of her feet, and when she glanced away from the window as a particularly brilliant stroke flashed, she saw bottles of pills and boxes of powders topple off the nearest shelf and she registered the horror on the faces of her fellows. Most of the people sat cross-legged between the aisles, the owner sitting on the counter and cradling his cyberarm, which sparked like it had short-circuited.
Sweat ran down her face and arms, nerves, not from the heat—the air was even colder now inside the shop, and in the next lightning flash she saw her breath puffing out in a lacy fan that fogged the window. Ninn dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, the added pain helping to keep her focused. She leaned against the icy glass to stay upright.
More time passed before softly sound intruded, whispered voices that swirled like the wind. Not from the people in the chemist’s…the voices came from somewhere else, maybe somewhen else. Too often, she heard voices:
“—Get out of here, you fraggin’ tusker!”
“Got no right to live on this bridge. My bridge. SCRAM!”
“Six million rivets. And you dumbasses disrespect every one of them.”
“Not a bowl? I’d drink soup out of it.”
“Honestly, Houdagh, you don’t haveta grouch at me. I was just makin’ conversation—”
Ghost chatter? Ninn thought she could see vague shapes in the mist that rose and twisted and marched away. Ghost dancing? Music scored it, sounding tribal.
“—Old soul, old troll, big eyes the shade of charcoal.”
“It’s the bottom of the ninth, and I’m comin’ up to bat.”
The whispers grew louder, the music dissonant, and then it all turned into waves of thunder that made the fractured front window tremble. Ninn stepped back and heard the wind whistle under the door, more objects on the shelves behind her clatter and fall, glass break nearby. More voices, this time from the people in the shop.
“Pigs, but we’re all gonna die!”
“Get away from that. You break it, you buy it.”
“Mary. Oh my God. Mary was going to ride the ferries, Elspeth was with her.”
“My comm is all static. Where’s the lumpers?”
“My skin hurt
s. By the Old Ones, it fraggin’ hurts.”
“Saw a lumper fly past the window. Storm got him. Good riddance.”
“Storm’ll get all of us.”
“Stop that! No stealin’ the medicine. You need a prescription!”
The lightning stopped being pink and flashed yellow-white, thin tendrils that flickered like the lights that were coming on in this store and the ones across the street. The rain continued, but straight down now, the wind dying. No sign of hail, save the thick clumps of it melting on the sidewalk that was now clear of the strange mist. The lights finally brightened to their full intensity, and she heard the orks breathe sighs of relief, the frail one getting a hand to help him off the floor.
“Mary. My Mary.”
“I ain’t stealing no medicine!”
“Think it’s safe to go out?”
“He’s got brollies at the back.”
“And you’re not takin’ ’em—you’re buyin’ ’em.” This from the man who’d been sitting on the counter. “Shouldn’t be out on the street without a big brolly anyway.”
Ninn glanced over her shoulder to see the rabble making for the umbrella display. Umbrellas were no protection from a mana storm. But regular rain…if the rain was regular, she’d welcome that without an umbrella.
Sucking in a deep breath, she reconnected the smartlink and stepped outside in a shuffling gait. Her legs throbbed, and her chest felt tight. The rain was pelting, but warm. It would have relaxed her if she didn’t have such a good view of the aftermath of the mana storm.
Mordred whistled. “That was bad.”
“That was an understatement.” She looked at her chrono: 5 p.m.—5:15 p.m.—5:30 p.m. It stopped adjusting itself at 6 p.m. The mana storm had lasted about three and a half hours—it had felt like forever. She’d suffered through longer ones, but usually when she was stretched out on the couch in her office, cruising to get through the mana deluge with some slips.
The businesses across the street were damaged to varying degrees. The trendy clothing store had been pitted and blasted, the façade crumbling like it was in a war zone. The resale shop had taken up the bottom floor of a four-story building…which was now a three-level building, the top sheared off and no trace of rubble from the missing floor. The spring rolls dive had changed from a brick front to glimmering blue metallic, a definite improvement. The expensive steak house’s awning had turned from green canvas to electric white planks…Ninn shuddered. She saw a dozen patrons pressed against the window beneath that awning; the late lunch crowd had been watching the storm like she had. They’d all been turned to stone.
No doubt others in the city had suffered the same statuesque fate…or worse. Two months ago, Ninn had watched a pair of young, hand-holding tourists vaporized by a pink bolt. There were reports that outlying areas years ago had suffered great casualties—populations turned into koalas and dingos, the latter eating the former before another errant storm returned everything to normal and sent the survivors to shrinks. Fortunately, serious mana downpours like this one were usually months apart.
“Chicago,” Mordred offered. “Chicago, 2002, 113 minutes running time. You could get me through customs easy enough.”
Ninn glanced back at the chemist’s storefront. The only apparent damage was the cracked window. No other customers had come out; through the spiderweb cracks she saw them clustered around the counter with umbrellas in hand.
Others were edging out onto the sidewalks—from the resale shop, the trendy clothiers, tentative, looking up, one woman tip-toeing to a corner, peering around it, and then sprinting away. Sirens echoed from many streets over, and Ninn saw the flashing red lights of emergency vehicles reflected in the now-pale gray clouds. The bank looked almost beautiful as it shifted to a silvery opalescent blue-gray with bands of pink, a big piece of mother-of-pearl stretched as far as she could see. Lampposts came on; the sirens grew louder and then retreated, the sound bouncing off the canyon of buildings.
Everything smelled of sulfur.
Ninn planned to watch tonight’s news, take a gander at what devastation had been wrought citywide, reports of cleanup, eyewitness statements. Every so often, Discovery Down Under would splice together segments of video captured by tourists and locals and newsmen, call it “The Storm Part Whatever.” And every so often, Ninn would watch it out of morbid curiosity. She bet there’d be plenty of footage from today’s blow.
“Chicago,” she said, picturing big fat flakes slowly drifting down, intact storefronts displaying after-Christmas sales, shoppers having no fear of being turned to duracrete during their excursions. Why stay here, in the Cross? In Sydney? Why did any of these people stay? Because it was home. Or they lacked the nuyen to go elsewhere. Because random magic from the storm, while dangerous, was also exciting and unpredictable and terrifying all at once, and let them live life on a razor’s edge. Or they craved the safety the storm provided—the surveillance wasn’t as plentiful under the cloud. Less law, a laxer government, easier to hide, easier to be nefarious, sometimes easier to find work because people were nefarious. Easier to not pick up and move.
Easier to do nothing but hunker down and watch.
“Keebs, uh, Nininiru, if we figure out who this Cross Slayer is—and take several days to do it—you’d have more nuyen, buy you that trip back to the States. Chicago, indeed, we could—”
“We could be quiet for a while, okay?” Her head pounded. Her legs and arms dully ached, only a slight improvement since the pink lightning stopped. Good thing the storm rarely tossed down mana that toyed with implants. She wondered if arthritis was like this. There were treatments and modules that didn’t cost all that much, that would make sure arthritis didn’t happen. She’d put one of those on her list.
Ninn shelved her plans to visit the spot where the first victim was killed. Tomorrow. When she didn’t ache so much. After she’d drunk enough to numb her throbbing limbs and send her troubled thoughts spiraling into oblivion.
She ambled to the corner. Just inside the entrance to a building a young mother squatted in front of a stroller, sobbing. A small, struggling wombat was strapped in the seat; it had probably been a child. Nothing Ninn could do; she crossed the street to the spring rolls dive, seeing herself reflected in the shiny new façade. What a mess, she was. Not unattractive, but she needed some new clothes, something that didn’t look like rumpled tourist attire. And she ought to have at least some of her wardrobe laundered…give her more options, since she was working a case. Put on a little makeup. Look professional, and be treated like a professional. Thanks to Cadi, she had the nuyen to do it.
She glanced down at the sidewalk in front of the spring rolls restaurant, where the chalky outline of a portly man in mid-stride stretched toward the door. He probably fell and had been vaporized in the storm, the tracing left to mark his passing. Not fast enough to reach safety. There were other similar traces of people around the city, Sydney’s Vesuvius.
“You’re hungry, Keebs? Didn’t you eat at that Righteous—”
“No, I didn’t, Mordred. I wanted fried rice.”
“How about some Fried Green Tomatoes, 1991, Kathy Bates.”
She started to click off the smartlink.
“I’ll shut up. I’ll shut up. Get yourself some dinner, by all means, Nininiru.”
“I intend to.” A little takeout was a good idea—or a lot of takeout; she was famished and had plenty of nuyen on her credstick. She’d use some of it to fill her belly. A trip to the resale shop for some duds was in order too, a quick stop at the liquor store on Darlinghurst to add more variety to her deep desk-drawer stash, and then she’d pass the evening in her office, eating and drinking, and anesthetizing herself with a slip or two or maybe three and mulling over the murders. Maybe ask Mordred to quote from old movies until she fell asleep.
“Hoi! Ninn! Ninninninnin!”
She groaned as a disheveled elf awkwardly galumphed toward her, sloshing through puddles and waving his arms. Where the hell had he co
me from? Her vision was acute, and whenever she spotted Talon—which she had been doing up until about four months ago—she’d duck into a business, disappear down an alley, do whatever it took to avoid him. Frag, but she’d let her rumbling gut and aching bones distract her. He was truly the last person she wanted to see.
To ever see again.
Hell, she thought he might be dead. Hadn’t seen him for months. Had half-hoped he was dead, put out of his misery. How could he still be alive?
“Hoi, Talon.” She waited as he skidded to a stop next to her. She smelled something other than sulfur now, though she couldn’t put a name to the cloud of stench that swirled around him and settled like wet duracrete on her tongue.
He looked awful, and she knew it wasn’t because of the storm, which continued to pour rain down on the Cross. Her hair, his hair, clothes, were plastered to them. What there was of his clothes, anyway. They were raggedy, as many holes as threads, faded, spattered with color from paint, food, and who-knew-what. The rain had probably washed away some of his stink, but what remained was close to making her gag. At least the storm had power-scrubbed some of the dirt off his face. She’d seen him far filthier before.
Lord, but he was still somehow handsome; startling blue eyes, long lashes, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. A heartthrob face like a movie star. She would have called him beautiful but for the ropy scars on his arms and one trailing down from his knee, knew there were other scars, and he was much too thin to be considered a hint of healthy.
He used to be godawful beautiful…back when she loved him. And he didn’t used to stink then, either.
“Haven’t seen you for a while,” she said, suddenly feeling sorry for him and angry at herself for avoiding him. Their past history should have been enough to make her act more respectful.
“I’ve looked for you, Ninn. Often and all over. Was at your office earlier yesterday, day before maybe, and last week, last month, last whenever. I get days mixed up. You weren’t there. I figured you were either avoiding me, or you’d moved back to Chicago. I was praying you hadn’t moved back.”
