by John Helfers
No guarantees, but I will not interfere. A pause. You do not have much time. Soon your air will be gone and you will die. Submit. Open yourself and live.
“Go.” Chest working, he ripped off his spare air and thrust it at her. He spoke in bursts, trying to get it all out while they still had time. “Get out. Guideline. Let you go once. If I stay …”
“N-no.” Her skin was a sick, dusky blue in his headlamp. “No … I’m nearly out.” The whistle of her next breath. “I won’t make it.” Another gasp. “Not leaving … without you.”
“GO!” Pushing the canister into her arms, he shoved her, suddenly, very hard. The effort blacked his vision for a second, and the world tilted wildly. Then his vision cleared, and he saw that she was flailing, one hand still holding the canister, the other trying to right herself.
She wouldn’t go, she wouldn’t go! But he couldn’t spare a lot of energy; if he were too depleted, they were both dead; and he certainly didn’t have much time. Still, he had to give her this chance because there were no more options. Gritting his teeth, he focused his will, marshaled his mind, harnessed the power of the mana radiating from the rift, conjured up the image of the crater’s maw and thought: GO.
For an instant, nothing. Then, he felt the energy cohering around her, the crackle sizzling through the water, and when he looked, a electric halo closed round her body the way arcs of electricity dance from an antique Van de Graaf. She stiffened, and he caught her look of first confusion and then comprehension; and she reached for him, had time for one last word: “DANIEL!”
And then she was gone.
• • •
And he was dead.
• • •
Foolish. The Master draped over him, a softly deforming ooze. She has no chance, and you have wasted precious energy. You’ll truly die if you don’t take me into you. You’ll suffocate, or drown …
Daniel felt his consciousness slewing, bit down as hard as he could on the soft flesh of his cheek. The shock was like a slap in the face, but his head was roaring now, the pain battering his skull, pulping his brain.
He couldn’t wait. He wanted to give her more time. And he wanted to live so much now, more than he ever had since Rachel.
“Go,” he whispered, “go, Alana, go, go …”
Stop wasting air. Submit.
Now.
“Shevi min hayom v’machar v’leyolam,” he croaked: This is the bond from today and tomorrow and forever …
YES. The Master closed, cocooning Daniel’s body. Its tendrils wormed through the rip in the back of Daniel’s suit, then slithered along his neck, streaming along his arms, twining over his chest in a kind of ecstasy. YES.
“Mumah anah umishveh beshem SHEDU HA-GADOL,” he chanted, the Hebrew flowing from his lips, riding the last dregs of his air. “I make an oath and bind in the name of the Master who sits in Tehom whence all evil comes …”
He drew a breath to continue—and got nothing. Tried again, and failed.
Out of air. But it didn’t matter.
Once invited, the Master would never leave, and it was in his mouth now, gargling off the last of his breath, flowing into his lungs, leaking into his blood, running in fingers over the crevices of his brain … . Daniel felt his mind dimming, the final remnants of who he was slipping away. But he could still move—fitfully, in tiny starts, like a child’s toy whose battery’s run out—and his arm responded, his fingers crawling along his wrist. Now, it had to be now because if he waited any longer, the Master would have him for all time, and all this would be for nothing.
Would Alana know? Feel it? No. They were too far underground. He had done what he could.
Go, Alana. Go and live …
With the last of his strength, Daniel punched at his wrist—
• • •
As the Master suddenly sensed his intent: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE …
• • •
And now Daniel was swooning into oblivion: Rachel, I’m com …
• • •
The water flared into a bright burning rose as Daniel’s vest blew.
V
One second she was floating above the rift; the next she was staring up at an oculus of cobalt blue against black, clutching Daniel’s spare canister to her chest. She was back at the seamount’s maw.
She allowed herself one instant of anger—Daniel had the power to get them out all along but hadn’t used it, why? Then she inhaled, got nothing, tried again, got more nothing. Thought: Shit.
Working fast, she stripped her full facemask, tried not to panic as the water slammed her face, located the mouthpiece of Daniel’s spare canister, jammed the regulator into her mouth, hit the purge button, and inhaled. Cool air flooded into her burning lungs, and she had to fight to not suck the canister dry. The auxiliary canister was designed for depths above forty meters, and she was two hundred feet below that. The increased pressure would make her use up her air more quickly and besides, this wasn’t trimix. She’d get narced pretty damn quick.
She had to get out, fast. No telling when that thing would come after her. Yet she had this feeling Daniel had one more trick up his sleeve …
Then she saw the sleds she and Lee had tethered to the crater’s rim what seemed years ago.
Please. Swimming to one sled, she punched the starter. Nothing. Not even a click. The battery was dead. Nonononono … Seconds ticking away … She was almost afraid to try the second sled. Jabbed the start button and listened to a whole bunch of nothing.
No, no, damn you!
Desperate, kicking at the sleds, she pivoted, pulled water. Saw the sharks whirling high above.
Oh shit. She’d forgotten about them. She watched as they knotted, bunched and then, as one, headed straight for her. Well, hell, it didn’t matter; she couldn’t afford to pussyfoot around. If they came after her, they came. She probably wasn’t going to make it anyway, no matter what.
She swam, kicking hard, pulling as fast as she could. She shot out of the crater and now she was passing the sharks, swimming for all she was worth.
The sharks changed course, and closed.
Her heart crowded into her mouth, and she could only watch as the sharks swirled around, bottling her up, getting closer, so close she could see the jostling of spiky teeth. Close enough that she saw the roll of their dead eyes: doll’s eyes, eyes that were black and flat with absolutely no whites. Close enough that, now, they bumped her, bottled her up, and when she kicked, she actually hit one with her fin. Recoiling, she almost screamed, remembered the regulator, pushed the scream back into her chest. Breathless with fear and exhaustion, she looked down—
And saw the ocean move. Felt the rip of an explosion sear her mind, her heart—and she knew: Daniel was dead. Truly, completely, irrevocably.
No. Blinking against the salt sting of the water, she tried to focus—and then a tidal wave of fresh terror roared over her.
Because the ocean was still moving. Right. For. Her.
• • •
Something coming: huge, a dark benthic blue, as if the ocean floor were levitating …
And that’s when she felt something else: a sudden rush of heat at her throat. Her skin prickled and she thought: Necklace …the tooth …
The massive shape cohered, pulling together like something woven from mist and nightmares—and became a megalodon.
Oh my God. The beast was enormous, a good sixteen, seventeen meters, maybe twenty. It was headed straight for her, its huge dorsal fin scything the water. Its mouth unhinged and she saw the maw bristling with teeth, and something went a little loose in her mind.
I’m not seeing this. She watched it come, helpless as a bug hanging in a spider’s web. When the creature was twenty yards away, the school of sharks hemming her in place splintered, each animal veering off to make way. The megalodon slid beneath, actually bumped up against her. Its dorsal fin glided past, and—almost as if in a dream—she hooked her hand round the fin.
And the beast climbed. Its tai
l swept the water in powerful, even strokes, and she let the animal pull her. The water rushed past; its color began to lighten, and she looked up, expecting to see the bail-out tank—and did: hanging exactly where she and Daniel had left it.
But she also saw something else that made her blood chill.
Hovering in the water was the glowing imago of a man: very old, almost wizened, with a flow of snowy-white beard and intense, completely black eyes rimmed with no white whatsoever. A shark’s eyes.
No. Her thoughts were panicky. No, I’m not seeing this; I’m a mundane …
A small voice, one she recognized as her own, sounded in her mind: Yeah, right. Sweetheart, you got yourself a magic tooth with a heap of mojo and you’ve hitched a ride on a megalodon …
The old man studied her carefully, closely, and she had the sense he was memorizing every detail. They stared at one another: she on the back of this great beast, and he nothing more substantial than a dream. Then he—his projection—pulled apart in a sudden ripple, and vanished.
And she thought: Rebbe …
Coming after her? She sensed that might be right. So she would have to find a way to disappear. Back into the valley for a while. Then …?
That small voice again: Sure, you can hide. You can run. But remember: That old asshole sent Daniel on a suicide mission. Repair, my eye. Blow yourself into little teeny, tiny pieces just like Humpty Dumpty is more like it. But that rip is still there; those shedim are there and that old fart’s got to be involved. Now, you gonna let that stand?
Somehow, the megalodon knew to slow at the bail-out tank, and she wondered if maybe it was simply attuned to her needs, or could there be something else …?
She’d think about that later. First things first: She purged the regulator of the bail-out tank and simply breathed. Beneath her, supporting her, the megalodon moved in small, slow circles, waiting until she was ready, until there was need for its services.
Oh Daniel … She fixed her eyes upon the light of the world above, and her resolve firmed.
No. All this would not stand.
Not if she had a say.
VI
Halfway around the world, an old man inhaled a sudden breath and came back to himself, and muttered a prayer: “Modim anah l’fanehcha, melech chai v’kahyam … I gratefully thank You, O Living and Eternal King, for You have returned my soul within me with compassion.”
“Rebbe?” An acolyte glided to his side. “Is Daniel …?”
“Daniel’s gone,” the old man quailed. The projection left him weak and feeble as a baby. In the next few hours, he would be fed, bathed. He would sleep—but not before he gave one more order.
“Find her,” he whispered. “Find her.”
Better to Reign
By Michael A. Stackpole
Michael A. Stackpole is a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning novelist, editor, game designer, computer game designer, comics writer, an podcaster, and screenwriter. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting, as well as working on ideas for a half-dozen other novels. To learn more about Mike’s podcasting, please visit www.tsfpn.com (the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).
They stared at me as their bikes came to a halt, furtively assessing what level of threat I might represent. Then, starting with one Ancient who quickly infected the rest of the bikers, they snickered, cackled, and roared at some hilarious private joke.
I felt my cheeks flush with shame, though I fought for control. At first, I could not understand their scorn. Like them, I was an Elf and looked no different. Besides, I had gone to great pains to outfit myself appropriately. Silver chains dangled from my black leather jacket and razored spurs gleamed in the half-light on the toes of my boots. My fingerless gloves bristled with gleaming metal studs, and I’d even gone to the ridiculous length of affecting a purple and green mohawk hairstyle so I would fit in. Even the antique Harley I rode matched their chosen steeds of steel.
As the group continued to clutch their sides and whoop out new peals of laughter every time one of them looked at me, the truth finally dawned. Everything about me was perfect—too perfect. In this noble gathering of Elves, my clothes were just too new. My studs and spurs showed no tarnish of blood residue and my fingernails lacked the telltale oily grit from working on a bike. These details and many more revealed my true nature.
For these denizens of Seattle’s Sprawl, the only thing funnier than an Elf up from the preserves of Tir Tairngire is an Elf from the wilds who attempts to disguise his origins. My precautions, my plans, had been worse than for naught, they had betrayed me.
If my face was red before, it burned now with shame.
One Elf, distinctive for the black flesh and pink scar slashed over a milky eye, approached and wiped his hands on my jacket. “Geez, chummer, real wiz rags, ‘kay?” Like a court jester, the jackanapes turned to his compatriots and bellowed, “His Majesty has sent his Minister of Fashion to us, chummers. Show some respect.”
As the clown bent to drop his pants in derision, I twisted my wrist and raced the Harley’s engine. Its bass roar exploded like gunshots off interior walls of this warehouse where the Ancients had gathered. The cycle’s thunder shocked the Elf into a twisting leap backward. His pants slipped down around his knees, entangling his flailing limbs and bringing him down unceremoniously on his buttocks.
My effort at bravado earned me a momentary respite as the Ancients turned their scorn against the fallen Elf, but it was more than transparent to several other Ancients. One of them, lean even for an Elf, sliced through the crowd. Though she was not as voluptuous as I tend to prefer, her aggressive bearing and spirit were seductive enough. Yellow light flashed like a beacon in her mechanical eyes, and highlights shot from her long, coppery hair. Her gaze raked over me once, then again, more slowly. “You jacked, chummer?”
I shook my head.
“Magicker?”
I shrugged carelessly, hoping to give the impression of possessing more abilities than I, in fact, did have.
She shrugged wearily, then smiled, flashing long canine implants. “So yer a fern-witch come to the Sprawl to run with the Ancients, eh? Why don’t the High Lord just shoot you misfits instead of sending you to us to die?”
I sensed the probe in her question, but I killed the smile it almost brought to my lips. Could it be they had been told I was on my way to Seattle, but not why I had been exiled? Did the High Lord think me so useless that he would consign my fate to hands such as these? If so, that would not be the first gross blunder he had made.
Before I could answer, the roar of another bike approaching caught everyone’s attention. The syncopating rhythm of the bike’s engine must have been familiar, for it thundered new life into the lethargic gang. The jester scrambled to his feet, tugging his pants into place. Grins broke over the faces of the rest, and my last inquisitor bared her teeth.
Blond hair flowing back from his shoulders, the leader of the Ancients pulled his bike alongside, slightly ahead of mine. He gave me a quick look, his corpse-white face showing no emotion, then killed his engine and parked the bike. Leaving his mirrored sunglasses in place despite the dimness, he swung off the Harley and stood there, stretching the muscles of his slender form like a cat rising from a sun-warmed nap.
“In from the Tir, eh, chummer?” He planted his fists on his narrow hips. “By the gods, you’re a sight. Got your lunch in that backpack?”
“I was told that being armed would be a good idea if I wanted to survive here in the Sprawl.”
He pulled off his glasses and hung them from his handlebars by a cord. “I hope you’re better acquainted with whatever you have in there than you are with your fancy clothes.” He looked at me again, his black eyes searching and evaluating. “I’m Wasp, and I run the Ancients. We usually enjoy welcoming the High Lord’s special pals, but that’ll have to wait until later. Pearl, did you reach everyone?”
The jester nodded solemnly. “Everyon
e’s itching for a fight after sitting out the night of fire. Keno and Johnny Dark are pulling together the Eastsiders. They’ll meet us at the border on Westlake.”
“Good.” Wasp wandered across the floor to a billiards table. Pearl swept the balls into the pockets as Wasp drew a map from inside his vest, unfolding it and laying it out on the green felt. I killed my Harley’s engine and followed, taking up a position at the far end of the table. Pearl stood at Wasp’s right hand, and the female leaned on the table directly opposite the Ancients’ leader.
“Look, chummers, here’s the score. we’re going to consolidate our territory. We’re going to take the streets from Dexter to Aurora, starting at Harrison and going on down to Denny.”
The whipcord samurai narrowed her Fujikon eyes. “That’s Meat Junkie turf. They ain’t gonna like that.”
“That. Sting, is their problem. We’re looking at an all-out battle.” Wasp looked up at his assembled soldiers. “Kid gloves are off, chummers.”
Sting still looked uneasy, and I sensed a tension between her and Wasp that ran deeper than a just disagreement over this little outing. I could not help but wonder if these two apparent rivals had once been lovers. “The kid gloves might be off, Wasp, but the Meat Junkies are tight with the Emerald Dogs. They can easily bring in more firepower than we can. Keno and Dark might be bringing in the Eastsiders, but will that be enough? Besides, the area you want covers Bob’s Cartage and Freight, and we know the yakuza have designs on them...”
Her voice trailed off as Wasp’s nostrils flared. “The yaks ain’t in on this play. The Dogs got tore up By Raven’s people on the Night of Fire. Doing this is going to be good for us.”
“What about Raven?”
“What about him?” Sting’s eyes snapped open and shut like the shutter on a camera. “We offered to help him on the Night of Fire. Maybe he’d help us against the Meat Junkies.”
