Shadowrun: Spells & Chrome

by John Helfers

  A little later, when she cried out and called him by another man’s name, he was past caring.

  • • •

  She lay with her head on his chest. “How did she die?”

  He massaged her scalp. Her hair was silken, her scent spicy. “The plane vanished. No wreckage. No bodies. Nothing.”

  “A rift?”

  “I’d like to think so because then she could still be alive on some other metaplane, but …” He paused. “You remind me of her. It’s weird.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” She pressed her head against his chest again. “When I saw you, I thought: Lee. How strange is that, that we both have the same experience?”

  “Strange.” He laughed. “You’re talking to a guy who does magic.”

  “Like, all kinds?”

  “Some, but I’m also kind of specialized. I … bind. Sure, I can conjure—banish, hurl a couple energy bolts, stuff like that—but the Rebbe recruits us for our special talents. Binding is mine. I pull and contain wild or free spirits.”

  “Exorcism.”

  “Sort of. The process has its roots in old Torah mysticism. I bind. Most often it’s a spirit, but sometimes it’s binding as in sewing, or knitting rips between one metaplane and the next. That legend I told you? Same principle: The Kabbalist literature’s riddled with stories about shedim bound in mountains, or deep in the oceans.”

  “And you guys put them back? But how do you contain it until you can …?” Abruptly, she pushed up and stared down into his face. “You. You’re the vessel. You’re the bottle they put the genie into.”

  “For a while, yeah. You know, it’s really not as horrible as you think.” That was a lie; it was awful, like being pregnant with some kind of beaky monster gnawing at his insides. Only the Rebbe had the power to dispel, so until Daniel returned to Safed, he endured. Every encounter depleted him, left him weak as a kitten and his mana stained by evil. The Rebbe said that he was a living embodiment of a quelippah, the shell within which evil might be contained and then purified. Daniel’s life with Mossad, the secrets he’d carried and the people and metahumans he’d killed, had toughened him—or marked him, he was never sure, and he still suffered. Given his past, maybe that was okay.

  “What about reincarnation?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Do you believe in it? Because I got to tell you, what you do, this binding stuff, taking in spirits … it feels the same.”

  Was it? He had never summoned a spirit, though he knew the mashiva, the summoning incantation. But summoning was forbidden to him as it was to all the Rebbe’s followers. Not that spirit possession was undesirable: He knew many in the Rebbe’s circle who continually strived to make themselves pure enough to become ibbur, to host the soul of another. There were stories from long ago of acolytes who dug shallow graves alongside the tombs of the righteous and prayed to be so invaded if only for a short time. But the Rebbe was clear: Their job was to repair the world, to perform tikkun olam using the one, true Kabbalah and not the bastardization of the tradition practiced by the goyim.

  Besides, he would never be pure enough. Not after all he’d done.

  He said, “Well, I get what you’re driving at, but it’s totally different. My tradition calls it gilgul. But that can only happen to the very good and if the host spirit is willing to give up its place in the body. I’m not very good.”

  “But look at us. We’ve both lost people we love, and we’ve been drawn together to this place.”

  “Alana, I’m not Lee. There’s only me in here.”

  “I know that. I’m not asking you to be Lee. I can never be Rachel. But there’s something between us. You feel it, right?”

  He gathered her in his arms. “I feel you. Has it occurred to you that we’re seeing the reflection of what we want and not what’s real?”

  “This is real.” She brushed her lips against his. She pressed his hand to her breast. “I’m real. Maybe this is our fate—to be here, to be together.”

  “Alana, I can’t …”

  “Why not? If the rift’s there, it’s been there off and on for centuries. Millennia. You could stay here. We could.”

  He was tempted. To be free of the ever-watchful presence of the Rebbe, even if it was a shackle he’d donned willingly. (Had he? Could any man a hair’s breadth from suicide be said to be in his right mind?) Free of the world and its demands. Just … free. Could the Rebbe even project into this valley? He didn’t know, though he thought not; surely, the Rebbe would’ve come looking for him already and since he hadn’t … God, he deserved some happiness. He was so tired, but … “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” He took her face in his hands and kissed first one cheek and then the other, and tasted salt. “You know I can’t. Don’t you see? I’d be exchanging one prison for another. We could never leave. As soon as we’re within range of a node …”

  “Shadowrunners do it.”

  “What kind of life is that? Alana, I have to finish what I’ve begun.”

  “No, you don’t have to. You want to.” She straddled his body, her hands flat on his chest. Her shark’s tooth was an ivory teardrop in the hollow of her throat. “There’s an old saying amongst my people: Küpau wau i ka manö … I am finished to the big shark, all consumed by the big shark, I am finished.”

  “Your people celebrate becoming dinner?”

  She twisted a handful of his chest hair. “Don’t be a smart ass. Sharks are single-minded, they don’t stop. You’re like that. You’re consumed. You’ve given yourself over to this Rebbe of yours …”

  “Yes, but not for tonight,” he said, and held her close. “Tonight I give myself to you. I give myself to us.”

  “Then stay with me as long as you can,” she murmured into his mouth, “and love me. Love me.”

  IV

  May 9

  He was cold. His head hurt. His chest felt like he’d broken every single rib in maybe three places. He tried pulling in air. Had a panicky instant when nothing came but then did, only hard, like he was sucking air through a straw. Jesus … His brain was woolly, his thoughts mushy … was he running out of air? How long was he out? A lancet of pain, and he moaned.

  “Easy.” A man’s voice. “Take it easy.”

  “Daniel?” A woman. Far away, like they’d stumbled onto a bad bandwidth. “Daniel?”

  “Ungh,” he croaked.

  “Daniel.” Then to someone else: “What’s wrong with him?”

  The man: “He clocked himself pretty good. Still bleeding.”

  “Oh God.” Alana pressed her hand to Daniel’s head just behind his left ear.

  “Ow,” Daniel said.

  “Hey now,” said the man. “That’s better.”

  Speak for yourself. Daniel’s eyes slowly cranked open and for a second, he thought maybe his head injury was way worse than he thought because, except for a single ball of excruciatingly bright light spiking his eyeballs, everything was shadowy, inky black.

  Then he got it. They were still in the water. In a cave. Well, a lava tube. Same diff because they were still screwed.

  “Get that fucking light out of my eyes before I break your arm.” He was appalled by how he sounded: weak and sick.

  The light angled down, and then Alana said, “Daniel, you hit your head pretty hard. There’s a rip in your suit, and you’re taking in water.”

  “Uh-huh.” Talking made him dizzy, and trying to move made him want to throw up, but he let her help him sit up. The lava tube was cramped, with just enough room to hunch and turn but not much more. His buoyancy had changed now that his suit was heavier, and every movement made the darkness spin. Thank God his vest was waterproof …

  The man, again: “How are you feeling?”

  “Like shit.” He slicked his lips, winced as a squirt of fresh blood coated his tongue. His stomach lurched, bile burned the back of his throat, and he thought: Fuck, no, not into my facemask. He swallowed back a mouthful of puke, grimaced. “Who are you?” He answered his
own question: “Harriman?” He threw a glance at Alana, regretted it when his stomach rebelled at the sudden movement. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “No bullshit.” She touched the other man’s arm, and Daniel’s chest went just a little tighter. “I didn’t believe it at first either.”

  “I don’t,” he said flatly. But when he viewed Harriman with his astral sense, the man’s aura was there. Not real bright, but … He said, not very charitably, “You ought to be dead.”

  “Tell me about it.” Harriman sounded both flustered and relieved.

  “No, why don’t you tell us?”

  “Stop bullying him,” Alana said.

  “You don’t think this is a little fucked up?”

  “Of course, but before you go around slinging accusations, look at your dive computer.”

  He did, asking for his HUD. He expected his air to be low; it felt like it should be. Maybe a half hour left, max (which, no, wasn’t good). But his HUD said his fill was virtually unchanged from when they’d arrived at the seamount: a couple hours’ worth.

  That wasn’t right. How much time …? He scanned the readout, looked at the elapsed time … and then looked again. Told his computer to do a systems check and read the impossible.

  When he didn’t say anything, Alana said, “See? Time’s slowed down. For all intents and purposes, time has stopped.”

  “That’s crazy.” He wasn’t a physicist, but … “Even if we’re trapped, time should be passing normally within the bubble.”

  “Well, it’s not.” Lee Harriman wore a drysuit as well, and a full face mask. His cyber-eyes were silver-blue and very bright. “It’s been, what, two weeks? My fill’s only gone down an eighth.”

  “Yeah, but what are you eating? What are you drinking? Why haven’t you died of thirst, or hunger?”

  “Daniel,” said Alana.

  “Alana, they found pieces of his suit. They said sharks.” He thought of the sharks above the seamount. Christ, what if they had gone after Harriman to protect her?

  Alana was saying: “We don’t know that it was Lee’s suit they …”

  “Fuck this.” Harriman broke in, his voice edgy. “Alana said you’re a practitioner. So either I’ve got an aura, or not, right?” When Daniel didn’t answer, Harriman said, “Right. So back the fuck off, okay? I don’t know why I’m not dead, but I’m not real sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Bullshit.” Daniel couldn’t read Harriman’s eyes, but he hadn’t spent time reading body language for nothing. “You do know, or you’ve got a pretty damn good idea.”

  “Lee?” Alana was a small woman, and light—and for the first time, Daniel noticed that she was riding a little high and something dinged in the far reaches of his brain, but he couldn’t chase the thought down. Alana reached a hand to her lover then seemed to think better of it. “Tell us.”

  Harriman was staring at the virtually featureless curve of lava arcing over them, his weirdly blue eyes clicking right then left. Finally, they settled on Daniel’s face.

  “I don’t know for sure,” he said. “But I think it’s been waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?” said Alana.

  Harriman stared at Daniel. “You.”

  • • •

  Harriman led the way, following a guideline through a maze of narrow lava tubes that led into the guts of the dead volcano. Daniel had visions of the tubes crumpling under the pressure, the full force of the seamount crashing down. His breathing was shallow; he was hyperventilating but not getting much air. His headache was worse, and his chest was one continuous burn.

  Calm down. He tongued salt from his upper lip. You’ve been in way worse situations. The fact that he couldn’t think of any off the top of his head wasn’t reassuring. This was like something out of a childhood nightmare: visions of being trapped underground, in the dark, where going up wasn’t an option.

  And something else: He’d never wished for the Rebbe to find them quite as much as he did now. Some kind of irony there.

  “How … how much … further?” Alana sounded as winded as he felt. He craned his neck but could only manage a few degrees: enough to see her laboring in the glow of his headlamp. Her tanks clanked rock.

  “Not much.” There wasn’t enough room for Harriman to turn around. “Just another dozen meters or so.”

  It was less. Inching along, and then Daniel felt the roof of the lava tube soar away, had the sense of space opening before them. He switched to his astral sense; saw Alana’s orange glow—washed out, weaker than before, like a sunset bled of color, on the cusp of night. Harriman was even dimmer, just a silvery wisp.

  But now above and beyond Harriman, an immense space in which something pulsed and glowed now white, now purple, now green …

  The tube spat them out and the sudden drop was like tumbling out of an airlock into outer space: nothing above, and a long way—forever—down. He was having trouble with his buoyancy, the added weight of the water dragging him down and he scuttled back, kicking until his tanks banged rock. Grappling for a handhold, he hung—and stared. He’d seen pictures of the Watergate’s Great Rift and of course, he’d seen—and repaired—much smaller tears in the fabric between metaplanes. Still, he wasn’t prepared.

  Ragged, gaping, the rift was easily ninety meters long, fifty meters wide. It undulated like something alive; gossamer-thin tendrils of mana coiled in its depths, glimpses of an adjoining metaplane. Bolts of light fitfully pulsed between its shredded, swollen lips, like blood spurting from a wound hacked into the skin of the earth. Something moved in the rip. Not mana. He squinted. The effect was like peering through a flawed pane of milky, runny glass. He could make out shadows, silhouettes and as he watched, one pulled together, solidified—

  Oh shit …

  A shedu.

  “What is this, Harriman? What … ?” He swung his head toward the other man and his voice died in his throat because he saw two things: Harriman—and Alana, hovering at an angle, her feet higher than her head, working hard to keep from drifting.

  God, no …

  When a diver’s tanks empty, the paradoxical happens. Compressed air, trimix, heliox are all heavy. As tanks are depleted, a diver usually dumps air from her buoyancy compensator, or expels air from her lungs in order to maintain her trim. Only when a diver’s air is completely gone and the lungs filled with water will the body sink. The only reason a dead person floats is because of tissue bloat from gases released with decomposition.

  Alana, an experienced diver, was having trouble with her trim and the only reason for that was …

  “Alana.” Each breath was harder and harder, but now he knew why. Cursed himself for not having thought of it before. Wondered if the same force that had fooled their senses also clouded his judgment. “Alana, honey, I need you to come over here.”

  “What?” Her labored breathing rasped in his ears. She sounded dazed. Her face shone with sweat.

  “Alana, it’s an illusion. This whole time … we’ve been … running out of air.” Now that he knew for sure, he could sense the seconds ticking off his life. “Your buoyancy … ” He gulped down another thin lungful. “Headache …”

  “Carbon dioxide.” He heard the sudden fear in her voice. “But … but Lee …”

  “Alana, look at him.” He swallowed, slicked his lips. “No bubbles. He’s got no air … ”

  “Oh my God.” Her voice quaked with terror. “Lee? LEE?”

  “No.” With a huge effort, he kicked, closed the distance between them and wrapped a hand around her bicep. “Stay away, just … Ah, God.”

  He saw now that Harriman’s suit was in tatters; half his chest was gone and a chunk of his left thigh; his facemask was shattered, open to the water. A yellow stalk of nerve wormed from one empty socket. Harriman’s puffy face went slack all at once, like a marionette whose puppeteer has stepped out for a smoke. His color leeched away; his head lolled; and then his lower jaw sagged. A convulsive shudder wracked his frame; something bulged and
heaved in his throat.

  Alana screamed.

  Harriman vomited something slick and mucinous and gray. It had the undulant consistency of a jellyfish, the same translucent milkiness and yet it was also muscular, like the rope of a serpent’s body worming in a gurgling, unctuous coil. Emptied of its cargo, Harriman’s savaged body drifted away, spinning in a slow, lazy spiral.

  Give me what I want. The shedu’s voice was sibilant, gauzy, curiously tender. This one was weak; he let her get away and then he smashed his own facemask and he died, and for what?

  And yet, Daniel thought, the shedu—clearly a Master to have manufactured such an illusion and held open this gateway—had not used Harriman’s body to escape. Why?

  The Master, seeping into his brain: I require a vessel able to contain me.

  Something like him: a binder, who could hold all that monstrousness for all time, if need be. Someone whose shell would not decay. A kind of shedu-esque Dorian Gray. Well, that was his talent, wasn’t it? Had the Rebbe known? He thought of the legend, that the shedim were locked away in mountains and in the depths …

  The Master: Who do you think imprisoned me here to begin with? You are a pawn, nothing more, but I offer you power. I offer you life.

  Something had gone wrong here, Daniel knew. He was surprised at how calm he felt, as if he’d always known that this was his destiny. All his sins, the stains of his past …

  So. This prison had weakened, or the Master found some way to break through and now there were others, waiting to come through …

  But why Alana?

  The Master, again: Without her, you would never have been drawn here. Submit freely, and I will let her go again.

  A lie. He knew that. But he would have to very careful now.

  “What,” Daniel sucked in a mouthful of air but couldn’t fill his lungs. “What … guarantee?”

  “Who …” Alana gulped. “Who … are you … talking to?”