It wasn't the first time he'd been trapped and needed to become invisible. Distraction had worked almost as well then. Masamba had given him a way out. Sam concentrated, trying to calm his breathing enough to focus on the spell. Even if he completed it, the razor-guy might not fall for his illusion. Forcing that worry away, Sam fought his panting into a regular rhythm and concentrated on the effect he wanted to achieve.
Voices erupted down the street, a hue and cry for the fleeing shooter. It sounded as though the mob Masamba tried to incite had found the man they sought and were pursuing him. The razorguy looked up, considering the tumult. Then he ran toward the noise. He passed Sam's hiding place without even a glance into the shadows.
Sirens wailed as a police car flashed through the intersection, headed for the alley where the pedestrian had been shot. Someone had listened to Masamba's exhortation and called the police. Maybe the mage had done it himself. Either way Sam was in trouble. In a matter of minutes, the police would have his description. Or would they? Would Masamba want Sam taken up by the police? One way or the other, Sam definitely wasn't in favor of letting the local badges have him off.
Trying to get out of the Ute zone to reach Hart's safehouse in the Pueblo zone was too risky now. This close to the border there would be patrols on the adjacent streets. Not much shadow traffic would cross the border tonight. If Sam knew the city better, he might have been able to guess at which likely points the patrols would light and where it might still be safe to cross. Going over at a checkpoint was out of the question. If the police had his description, his false identities wouldn't be good enough. For tonight at least, he was stuck in the Ute zone.
He realized how poor was his knowledge of the city. And how poorly equipped he was to deal with the level of threat hot on his heels.
Well, there was one sort of help you could buy with minimal questions, and no worry about former loyalties. Mr. Smith and his frieads might not be good traveling company right now, but they'd easily stand a friend to some protection. It took Sam an hour to find a gun shop. The neon sign's "1" was out, making the name look to be "Weapon Wor d." The outer screen was down over the display window, but the place was open.
So he had changed. Here he was, contemplating buying lethal weaponry. Well, his world had changed, too. Sam didn't know why these people were after him, but it was obvious they were prepared to play rough. Alone in the city, he needed some way to even the odds. With so many foes, guns seemed the only answer.
A bum accosted Sam at the door of the shop, more proof that the Ute social system wasn't as egalitarian as its propaganda claimed. Here was another old, discarded remnant of the Ute tribe. He wore a battered black reservation hat sporting an equally battered turkey feather. The rest of his clothes were concealed under a dirty, multi-hued serape, and he stank of cheap booze and accumulated grime and filth. His wheezy voice was full of alcohol-fueled enthusiasm.
"Need a guide, Anglo? Can't do better than me. Honest Injun. Hey hey, get the joke. I know the best places. Ute Council. Pueblo, too. Know all the best hunting, best lodges. Girls, too. What ya hunting, Anglo? Elk, buffalo? Or ya into the paranormal? Hey hey, I'll help ya find it."
Sam removed the unwashed hand gripping his sleeve. "I'm not a hunter. Try somebody else?'
"Still need a guide. I been "
The bum's protest was cut off as the outer door closed behind Sam. He waited while the scanner noted his weapons and the proprietor gave him the onceover. A click signaled that the inner door was unlocked. Sam entered and headed for the counter. As he walked, he glanced around, noting that he was the only customer. Just as well. The fewer people to deal with, the fewer might recognize him. Maybe the slow business would make the owner more receptive to a deal.
As it turned out business had been slow all day, and the surly owner was in no mood for deals. Sam transferred more than he thought fair for the weapons, but didn't complain. Uncomfortably, he accepted the Clock 7-mm Hideaway and the Sandier submachine gun. The shopkeeper was handing over the two boxes of ammo when he suddenly went rigid and his eyes took on a glassy look. , Sam had felt the spell wash over him, and didn't need to turn around to know that trouble had found him. He hadn't heard the door, so the spell-caster wasn't inside yet. Hoping his body shielded the action, he opened the box of 9-mm ammo for the Sandier and grabbed a handful of bullets. He couldn't unsling the Sandier. without revealing that he had not succumbed to the paralyzing spell. If he could get a minute under cover, though…
A reflection in one of the display cases behind the counter showed him his hunter. The scarecrow elf had tracked him here. The door opened to admit him as if automatically controlled. Sam spun to face him, and was disheartened that the elf didn't appear the least astonished.
So much for the advantage of surprise. "Don't look so disappointed, Verner. After the trouble I had banishing the city spirit you set on me, I did not expect you to succumb to so small a magic.'' The elf held out his hand. "Give it to me."
"You seem to know me, chummer, but I don't know what you're talking about."
The elf unleashed a sigh that could have passed for a growl. "I have no time to waste."
Sam didn't need to sense the power gathering around the elf to know what was coming. He dove for the floor as a fireball sizzled through the air. It engulfed the shopkeeper, who stood motionless as the flames blackened his flesh and ignited his clothes, melting their synthetic fibers into his shriveling skin. Sam felt the heat of the sudden conflagration as he crawled behind the meager cover offered by the stock shelves. Flames hissed, but the dying man made no scream of pain. Sam hoped the poor man's nerves were as paralyzed as his body.
The fire set off the automatic alarm, and the sprinkler system spurted to fitful life.
"Bad move, chummer," Sam shouted. Feverishly he fumbled the magazine out of the Sandier. "Alarm's going off at the local police and fire stations. Place like this has direct connections. Too much fire hazard."
The elf's answer was another fireball. Sam's protection erupted in flames, then began to topple toward him. He rolled away, barely escaping being buried in the falling merchandise. In his haste, he lost the magazine. He cursed. The Sandier would be of no more use than a club, and he was exposed now. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for the door. He never made it. In a whirlwind of orange and yellow fire, he was picked up bodily and thrown through the disintegrating display window. Glassy teeth tore at him, shredding clothes and flesh with equal ease. In a shower of fragments, he landed on the cold sidewalk outside the shop. His shoulder was numb, his face a stinging mass of scrapes and cuts, and one eye was blinded by flowing blood. He had lost a boot and most of his pants, but he was still alive. His magic had saved him from the flames.
The bum was still there. Faintly, Sam could hear him clapping.
"Hey hey, good show."
Sam was not amused.
The scarecrow elf stepped through the window. His curly hair was matted from the water and his clothes dripped, but he seemed unaffected by his physical state. As soon as he saw Sam sprawled on the sidewalk, he smiled. "No more running, Verner. Time to die."
A shadow danced between Sam and the hunter. The bum.
"Can't do that," he objected. "The Anglo's mine. You want somebody, you go find your own. I've got magic too, elf. I'm the wind of the desert and I'll blow you away."
The bum waved his arms wildly. His serape undulated and flapped, but nothing else happened.
The elf sneered. "Wind? You're nothing but hot air, old man, while I am truly Rock. And if you do not take your pestiferous hide away, I will grind you to less than nothing. This matter does not concern you."
Before the elf could make good his promise, the roar of gunshots ripped the night. Staggering backward, he caught his heel against the sill of the display window, then fell heavily into the shop with a resounding crash.
The old bum stared down the street. Sam followed his gaze and saw the slim razorguy racing toward them.
Looming ou
t of the dark behind that one came the twin bulks of the other two muscleguys.
More trouble. At least Sam knew now that the scarecrow and Masamba were not working together. He pushed himself up on one elbow but his head spun and slumped under the lash of pain that made his head spin. Looked like this round was going to the bad guys. Sam felt a shudder in the pavement caressing his cheek. Could the razorguys be carrying enough chrome to shake the earth where they ran? A delirious concept, but he was close to delirium. Concussion, he supposed. He rolled over onto his back.
It wasn't the razorguys. The shudder increased in frequency and a grating rumble rose. The scarecrow elf was standing in the window of Weapon World, arms outstretched and glowing with the intensity of the mana gathered around him. He was singing, too, but Sam didn't recognize the language.
The rumble grew to a roar and the street began to. heave, stopping the advance of the razorguys as they fought to keep their balance. Pacing stones from the surrounding buildings split off and plummeted to the street. A large piece struck one of the trench-coated muscleguys and squashed him like a bug. The others took cover, too unsettled by the massive magical manifestation to fire at the magician.
A wail from down the street drew Sam's attention to the figure of Masamba standing there. The Black mage unleashed a bolt of amber energy that shrieked from his hands and burst into coruscating sparks against an invisible barrier surrounding the scarecrow elf. Encouraged by the arrival of their own magical support, the remaining razorguys opened fire.
Sam snatched the old bum's serape and hauled him down. His reward was a kick and a complaint.
"Hey hey, what ya doing? I'm magic, you stupid Anglo. Ain't gonna hurt me." Around them the apparent earthquake increased in fury. Dust from the falling bricks and building stones rose like a fog. It whirled and eddied in a wind that came from nowhere, but stubbornly hugged the ground to obscure vision beyond a couple of meters. Unable to target, the razorguys ceased their steady fire. Only when the swirling dust opened a fire lane did the guns speak. Cyan flashes of magical energy lit the dust clouds as they screamed in response to Masamba's erratic barrage of amber bolts.
A brick crashed to earth near Sam's head. Pain forgotten, he scrambled to his feet. The old Indian leaped up at his side, screaming taunts at the stones and daring them to hit him. Sam's renewed attempt to restrain the old fool was aborted when the slim razorguy appeared wraithlike from the dust. He grabbed Sam's jacket and lifted him bodily. The force of the muscle-guy's rush slammed Sam against a wall. As his head rebounded, a gun muzzle poked into his throat, forcing his head back into another painful collision with the brick.
"Give it over and I'm gone. Keep it and you are." Jaw clenched by the pressure of the gun, Sam could barely answer. "I don't know what
…" "Don't jerk me, Verner."
Sam felt the hard, cold barrel of the razorguy's pistol slam against his temple. Before the pain ignited in its full fury, the muzzle was again under his chin. A hand slapped against his side. "Frag! It's gone!"
The pressure eased suddenly and Sam sank down, off balance. When the pain lessened, he struggled to his feet. The razorguy had vanished. Sam reached to his side where the street tough had struck him. There were slices in the leather of his jacket and his pants were ribbons over his hip, but he was slow to realize that he shouldn't be feeling the leather or fabric at all. His satchel was gone. He remembered his slashing passage through the Weapon World window. The strap must have been sliced away then.
The wail of a siren pierced the howling wind. As it grew louder, Sam looked around desperately. The pouch had contained his identities, and the credstick key to Hart's safe house. Somebody without a System Identification Number or any other means of identification wasn't going to get along too well with the police, even if they hadn't fallen for Masamba's earlier ploy. Word was that they didn't like shadows in the Ute zone. And Sam was too deep in that zone to get out in a hurry on foot.
Flashes of magical energy continued to sear cyan and amber through the dust storm.
A hand gripped Sam's arm. He twisted reflexively and struck out, relieved to feel the gripping hand release him. The target of his violence careened back into a wall and slid down in a disheveled heap.
The old man.
"Hey hey, Anglo. Some gratitude. Save ya from the rocks and ya slug me. Well, forget it. Find your own
The old man dragged himself to his feet and started away.
Sam tried to see what was going on. He didn't know what the two factions were after, or why they wanted it. From their earlier attention to him, it was something he had been carrying. Their sudden lack of interest in him indicated mat he no longer had what they were fighting over. That was fine by him. In his current condition, even the loser of the fight would probably walk all over him.
The sirens grew louder.
There seemed nothing to gain and a lot to lose. He wouldn't be able to recover his materials tonight, if ever. He staggered down the alley that had swallowed the Indian. Maybe the old sot really did know his way around the zone. The Indian might not volunteer any more aid after Sam's reaction to his helping hand, but by following him Sam could at least escape the immediate effects of the battle. After that, who knew?
Hohiro Sato wanted the stone the moment he laid eyes on it, though he'd never liked opal much till now. The oily iridescence was not his style, which tended more toward the clarity and depth of ruby or emerald.
But this stone… To see it was to want it. The opal had a magnetic attraction, almost as though it were somehow a part of him. Before, he had coveted it simply because Grandmother did. And the interest shown by the unknown faction told him it was a potentially powerful tool. But seeing it now, he wanted it for itself.
Its surface felt smooth, and was not cold as it appeared. It almost seemed alive under his hand.
He did not understand its potential, but he would. Someone would solve its riddles for him, and the power it represented would be his. How fortunate that one of Grandmother's agents had perished in the incident with who or whatever had attacked Verner in the gun shop. It had made it that much easier to dispose of the other and to eliminate any immediate claimants for the prize.
Sato contemplated the store, scratching absentmind-edly at an itch along his left forearm. The stone was magic, no doubt about that. He could almost feel its power. Very powerful magic, indeed, to draw the attention of the magically powerful party that had ambushed Verner. Masamba swore that the magician he had faced was at least a sixth rank initiate. The term didn't have any real meaning for Sato, beyond the fact that Masamba believed he had faced a wizard more powerful than himself. And that meant the third party was well supplied with magical resources. The level of magic involved in the Weapon World battle was well beyond that of which Verner was believed capable.
Sato wondered how much information Grandmother had on this third party. Had she known of the opposition before she sent him after the stone? Had he only been a stalking horse for her? If so, he would find a way to make her regret it.
Flakes of dried skin caught under his fingernails. He rubbed his thumb across his finger tips to brush the detritus to the floor.
He stared at the stone, ensnared by its beauty. It was more beautiful now that he owned it. What might not be his once he learned how to make best use of it?
Crawling higher on his arm, the itch became intolerable. Without thinking, he rolled back his sleeve to get at the irritation. When he finally tore his eyes from the stone to examine the source of the prickling sensation, he stared with horror.
The hard, lumpy thing that had been his arm was black and glistening with oozing liquid where it had emerged from the brittle flakes of epidermis. The streaks exposed by his scratching were already hardening to a dull, waxy shine. Two long, hook-taloned appendages replaced his fingers, and a smaller version lay slightly offset in a parody of a thumb.
His stomach churned and he retched. But he didn't scream at the horror that was emerging from
his own body. At this new manifestation of the taint. No, he didn't scream. He reached for the telecom with his human arm and opened a circuit to his administrative assistant.
"Get me Soriyama," he ordered. "And send in Masamba and Akabo."
Dodger had never moved so swiftly through the Matrix, nor so easily. The pulse of datalines was brighter, the clarity of icons sharper, and the blackness between all the places and passages of man's creation was darker. The electron skies spread over a horizon as limitless as his imagination. No meat experience could match this transcendental adventure.
Distant messages, falsely urgent, impinged on his joy, but he banished them by turning his eyes to the wonders of cyberspace. This was the freedom and power he had sought for years, the oneness with the Matrix.
And she was with him.
Hart looked into the fixer's face and searched for any clue to deception. She was disappointed. Everything he had said was true, or so he believed. They had worked uncounted shadowruns over the years, and she trusted him as much as she could anyone in her business. She knew of no reason he would deceive her. Worse, she didn't know of any reason that he might be deluded.
"You're sure there are three devices?"
"Three. Four. Five. What does it matter? But, yes, a minimum of three. All multiple-warhead. All conveniently forgotten by a well-paid weapons officer when the Americans left German soil for good." For a moment the tiny old man seemed wistful, remembering old causes. "They were the terrorist's El Dorado for decades following reunification. A Barbarossa sleeping beneath the earth until the final reckoning. They were to be the great liberators, destroyers of the bonds that tied the Fatherland's spirit."
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