The mage's bravado was brittle. Sato felt surprisingly tolerant. Masamba was one of the tools that was his alone, a resource he needed to conserve. Since his contact with the stone, he had come to understand what great forces were afoot. The time of confrontation was coming; the weight of gathering forces was upon him. Though he sensed that this big magic was directed at him or his working, he also felt that some other person was the target. He turned to Akabo.
"Has there been any indication of assault on more mundane levels?"
Akabo shrugged. "Nothing obvious. Biggest hit in the last week was a raid on the Seretech data bank." "Involving our interests?"
"Wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. Someone boosted the biodynamics formula."
"The timing is too significant to be incidental. Has the thief been identified?"
"Not yet. The Matrix run originated somewhere in the Hong Kong LTG. Ohara's people are scrambling on it."
"Then for the moment, we need do no more." Despite his words, Sato felt impelled to do something. The metamorphosis serum was a private project, or it had been until Grandmother had sunk her hooks in him. His skin tingled at the thought, and he suspected that he knew who had ordered the run against the project. He had never shared the details with Grandmother, and the Hong Kong origin of the theft could be no coincidence. Yes indeed, the confrontation was coming. "Masamba, we must investigate this matter of magic and make plans to deal with it. Akabo, give the order to ready Crimson Sunset. Also, place the local Red Samurai unit on standby.''
Masamba nodded acknowledgment of his orders, but Akabo didn't move. After a moment he said, "Is it wise to involve the corporation directly?"
Sato controlled the sudden flare of rage. His decision to use company assets for his own ends was no business of Akabo's. The corporation and Sato's position in it were secondary matters when survival was at stake. Jaw tight, he turned and stared at the samurai. "Do you question me?"
The man stiffened immediately. "lie, kansayaku. "
"Very well, Obey."
Akabo bowed briskly and deeply. "Ho, kansayaku."
Sato turned back to stare out the window while his flunkies set to work. There was much to ponder. Absently, he scratched at his itching rib cage.
The dancers slowed. Feet paused in air then plunged forward, stamping firmly. The singers hit the low notes of the chant with assurance.
The circle of dancers turned, raising dust that swirled around in intricate patterns. Sam read the patterns, A feather drifted free from a dancer's arm band.
Sam twisted the pattern, clearing the dust from the feather's path. It floated to the ground inside the circle and away from the dancers' feet. The dance went on.
The work of briefly quieting Gaeatronics' security and gaining the access codes for the submersible was done. So was the molding of prepared knowbots for Noguchi's use, and the binding of Warlord Han's perimeter systems. It had been easy. The runs were under way now, and no longer needed Matrix over-watch. The next phase was about to begin.
As part of the comprehensive assault on the mundane assets of Spider's minions, Sam wanted Grandmother's data system wrecked. They couldn't destroy the intelligence-gathering network from the Matrix, of course. Too many components were meat, and it was not possible to reach meat from cyberspace unless it voluntarily linked to the electron flow. But the data-stores could be purged of accumulated knowledge, effectively crippling Spider's minions for some time.
Dodger and Morgan flew toward the crystal web.
Knowing the web made entry easier. Entry and browsing had been the goal of their last trip. This time they were to hunt down important data and loot it away, a more difficult assignment. But she was the Ghost in the Machine, and he, through her tutelage, was enabled beyond a flesh-limited decker. Morgan engaged all the ice they flitted past, taking on program after program, while Dodger sifted through the file structure searching for the key blocks. A bulk purge was too inelegant; they would lift only selected items, the better to leave the enemy confused about what had been done to their system. Worms, viruses, and Trojan horses would be their gifts to Grandmother, and they would leave explosive blocks, borers, and scramblers to infect the remaining data. The decay and destruction would go on long after Dodger and Morgan's brief sojourn in the system.
It would be a glorious mayhem.
As he worked, Dodger became aware that something stirred at the edges of Grandmother's system. Had it not been for the increased awareness his association with Morgan had given him, he would never have noticed such a thing. As yet it was no more than a probe of the outer defenses, so Dodger dismissed it. If the presence were a threat, Morgan could handle it.
The deep path was slower here than at home, for this was not his land. It was more tiring, too, but Urdli ascribed that more to his companion. The earth did not care to have any save her own move through her heart. The effort of coaxing her to do otherwise was taxing.
Her trepidation grew as they approached their destination. The flavor of the stone was not right. The area was tainted with a scent he knew too well. Perhaps the Dog shaman had not been so foolish after all.
His progress was stopped by a wall where there should have been no wall. Focusing his strength, he felt an unexpected well of power. The faint strains of a song drifted through his head as he drew on that power and crumbled the barrier in his way.
As he and Estios emerged into a firelit cavern, Lav-city's aide promptly collapsed to his knees and retched. Urdli spared no concern for the other's weakness, his eyes full of a sight he did not care to see. The bomb was there, encased in its shipping container, but the weapon was not the cave's only occupant.
The thing that stood between him and the bomb was decked in beads and many-colored cloth swaths. Bangles, metal bands, and necklaces of animal parts and crudely incised'metal adorned its limbs and neck.
Though Urdli recognized several magically potent patterns common to primitive human cultures, this was no longer anything human. Bristles sprouted in sparse clumps all over its skin, and lumps distorted the once fine smoothness of the dark skin. Two pairs of vestigial limbs waved spasmodically from its shoulder girdle. Concealing its face was a gaudily painted mask of wood and feathers.
"I know you, elf," the thing said to him. "And I know you, Spider." It removed the mask and smiled, its human lips stretching wide as chelicera and pedipalpi extended and distorted the lower half of its face. The dark brown human eyes seemed out of place in the suddenly alien visage. "As you see, all is not as you expected. Spider is wise and devious, elf. You cannot dismiss her so easily. You will meet with the web no matter where you and yours turn with your disruptive ploys. Spider weaves well. That I learned long ago when I welcomed her gift of power. You, too, can know her blessing, rather than her wrath. It is not too late to join with Spider."
"I have no interest in becoming as you are." Urdli threw his arm forward, channeling the rriana in a blast so strong that his cyan signature-energy was nearly white with intensity. Parrying, the spider shaman sent out a scintillating web of deep violet that drank his energy. The shaman's cluttering laugh echoed from the cavern walls. Battle had been joined.
Willie took the whizzer in screaming. With some sharp piloting, she dodged the first antiair missile and dove to close the range as fast as possible. Wind pum-meled the craft, adding to the jolting from the sudden drops and high-gee rises of Willie's evasive maneuvering. The buffeting tossed Hart and the meres mercilessly against their restraining straps.
Without warning, the turbulence stopped, and the whizzer seemed to be in the eye of the windstorm. On the tridscreen showing the nose camera's view, Hart could see dust devils and debris swirls sweeping across the battlement of Weberschloss. Caught in one of the whirlwinds, an antiaircraft missile corkscrewed cra-zily and screamed wide of the whizzer. A second missile arced out on a smoke tail, then curved around to slam into the castle wall and toss the ork who had fired it from his perch. Gunner and launcher tumbled over and over as th
ey fell from the wall.
Willie bucked the craft up over the castle wall and applied a quick burst of forward thrust and an almost immediate counter-thrust. Only a rigged pilot could have gunned the thrust with enough precision to get the stripped panzer into the exact center of the courtyard. There weren't much more than a couple of meters on either end of the craft's long axis. Supporting thrust cut out, and the whizzer dropped. Hart's stomach stayed at altitude, and only caught up after Willie braked the fall with full thrusters, slamming the whizzer into the paving stones. It was a rough landing but not a crash. -
Hart and her half-dozen meres started unstrapping immediately. A trio of orks with automatic weapons were all that managed to reach the courtyard by the time they cracked the hatch. The orks' shouting died with them as Georgie cut them down. The wind howled as the meres burst out into the sunlight. Hart followed, scanning the walls and listening for Aleph's warning of hostile magic. The Herbstgeist weren't supposed to have magicians, but caution was advisable.
A grenade brought down the door to the keep, and a second one took care of any opposition on the other side. As a precaution, Georgie sprayed the antechamber before the first mere ducked in.
In the courtyard behind them, Willie's ground rig rolled out of the whizzer. The rig was a low-slung armored cart. The ceramet armor of its sloped sides would stand up to anything short of a missile, but the courtyard lacked space for a missile to arm itself. Weapon-snouted turrets and bulbous sensor domes sprouted like high-tech mushrooms on the cart's dorsal surface. As soon as the rig's rear tires touched the paving, the ramp slid back and the personnel hatch slammed shut. The whizzer would stay locked until the raiding party returned. Until then, the armored ground rig would stand guard and hold the retreat line. Hart and the meres started to move through the lower level of the keep. Smooth as a drill, half of them took a position, assured safe passage, then waved the other half on. For the next bound, the moving team went to ground as the first cover team leapfrogged past. Seeing the stairs into the lower levels right where they were supposed to be, they headed down. It was obvious the Herbstgeist defenders weren't expecting the raiders to take the low road, because the raiders met only a couple of very surprised locals, who failed to escape the meres' instant response. On the fourth level, the dressed stone gave way to less-finished tunnels.
Hart's map was clearly out of date, because there were unmapped excavations. Tunnels opened in unexpected directions, and walls of mortared stone stood where passageways should have been. The level was still under modification, for tools lay scattered at workfaces and the only furnishings were the few for the comfort of a small work crew. They were making slow progress. The thunder of the cannon on Willie's rig sounded faintly like a distant storm. The rigger's comm channel buzzed with static that fuzzed her voice.
"Incoming traffic. Third party. There're at least " The transmission was cut off. Hart hurried the meres on. She wondered if the Tir Tairngire elves had betrayed them, or if it was some of Spider's agents. Whoever had attacked Willie was not likely to be friendly to her cause. They had to reach the bomb cache and do the job before the new arrivals could interfere.
When they had to double back after hitting a deadend wall, Hart cursed all the way to the main corridor. Their goal would have been just beyond that fragging wall, but explosives were too dangerous to use down here.
They had just come upon what Hart thought was a corridor that would get them where they wanted to go when she heard running footsteps behind them. An ork caromed around the corner, clearly in a panic. She skidded to a stop at the sight of the heavily armed meres, her eyes wide with terror. One of them instantly cut her down. Hart looked away. This one wasn't necessary. The poor trog wasn't even carrying a weapon.
Twenty meters down the hall, she located the cache. "Take positions. We'll need to hold here for a while. Julio, keep trying to raise Willie."
The meres selected their spots rapidly. Hart slung her Roomsweeper to the carry position and set to work opening the vault door. Caliban hadn't been able to give her the combination, but he'd told her the model and she'd come prepared. The ten minutes it took her to crack the door was less than expected and more than she'd hoped. Opening the heavy door just enough to slip through, she entered the vault. The light from outside was enough to see by. She dug a flask out of her shoulder bag and began scattering the dust she had made to Sam's specifications.
"So this is your prize," Georgie said with a low whistle as he stared at the trio of warheads.
The mere's comment almost didn't penetrate. She was focused on remembering the chant Sam had said to use as she scattered the dust. It wouldn't be long before the third party found them here.
She almost didn't hear the faint hissing sound behind her.
She spun. Georgie stood there, looking like some kind of insect-headed man. His face was masked by a rebreather that distorted his lower head into the image of mandibles, and the starlight goggles made his eyes seem to bulge from his head. The hissing came from a cylinder in his hands. She read the designation on it just before he tossed it at her feet:
DEXSARIN: NERVE GAS: AEROSOL VECTOR.
The elder shamans dropped hands and broke their circle. Still dancing and chanting, they moved outward toward the greater circle. Their dragging right feet traced spokes to the wheel of the dance, and the wheel turned around them.
When a dancer faltered in his step, a shaman wearing a bear skin was there. As the dancer tottered the shaman stepped before him, hands weaving and capturing the dancer's gaze with hypnotic magnetism. The dancers circled and the bear shaman moved with the exhausted dancer, twirling a feather before his face and chanting, "Hu! hu! hu!" The dancer staggered free of the circle and stumbled toward the shaman. Panting and groaning with exhaustion, the dancer followed the shaman, who led him to the foot of the sprouting tree. Sam's gaze was drawn to the glassy stare of the drawn, pale dancer. Muscles twitching, the dancer bowed to Sam,
Beneath the sprouting tree, Sam opened his arms wide to accept the dancer. The man shivered once and pitched forward, his spirit soaring free. Power flashed laser-bright through Sam. His back arched in the agony. When his back muscles relaxed, he hung his head and wept. The Great Ghost Dance gathered strength.
Neko couldn't go on without checking. He told himself that he had to make sure his rear was safe. For all that their partnership had been brief, he owed Striper vengeance. Of course, he also needed the satchel she carried if he were to complete this run, which honor and personal pride bound him to do. Cautiously, he moved up to the corner. A faint slapping sound was irregularly audible. Weapon ready, he eased around.
Instead of victorious guards, Neko found himself face to face with a languid Striper gathering weapons. The dark leather satchel swinging against her hip was the source of the sound. It was the one intact thing she wore. Her clothes were in tatters and she was covered in gore, but she seemed unconcerned as she picked up weapons from among the bodies of the warlord's unfortunate troops.
Neko shifted his stare from his miraculously intact partner and considered the fallen guards, who looked as though they'd been torn apart. No knife, sword, or spur had made those wounds, that Neko was sure of. For all her seductive allure and feline grace, Striper was far more than she seemed.
It had to be magic.
Neko preferred to avoid those who dabbled in the arcane, but he was glad she was on his side. Considering the carnage she had wrought here, he would rather have faced one of the bug men than her.
He shook himself free from the hypnotic fascination of the bodies to find Striper watching him. Her face was made strange, almost alien, by the decorative face paint from which she obviously drew her street name. The harsh light of the overhead panels threw her eyes into shadow. One corner of her mouth quirked up into the ghost of a smile. A fugitive shaft of light touched the shadows under her brow and reflected red from her eyes.
Neko had never believed in demons, but now he thought the issue might be an
open question. "We've got biz," she said softly. Unwilling to trust his voice, he nodded. She moved past him at a lope, and he hurried to catch up. He trusted her to spot any opposition. Curiously, such a surrender of vigilance didn't bother him. She was more than competent. Could it be he had come to trust her? Or was he under her spell? He was still wondering when they reached the missile silo. The tall cylinders housing the long-range missiles marched off into the darkness in serried rows. It was a technological forest, an orchard whose fruit was death. The old terror that had haunted generations lurked here, magnified and somehow made perverse by the silence and cleanliness of the chamber. Death should not be sanitary, nor should it be so easy to send, especially by someone who could hide away from the consequences of his actions. He did not know why the American elf and his partners wanted this abomination neutralized, nor did he really care. He just hoped their fix was going to be a good one.
"As you said, we have biz," he said, pointing to the satchel hanging at Striper's side.
It was her turn to nod. She shifted the Kang to her left hand and dug her right into the satchel. She came up with a handful of gritty substance that she flung into the air.
Neko experienced a moment of absolute disbelief. Had he been suckered by madmen? Then his incredulity drowned in awe when the dust ignited and whooshed into the depths of the silo chamber like a comet.
It was no small relief to him to see that Striper appeared as astonished as he.
Another dancer was led to the sprouting tree. It was easier for Sam to take the sacrifice the second time, but no lighter a burden. The crystalline spirit sparked the dance's energy higher. With a prayer of thanks, Sam took the gift and used it.
In a distant place, dust sparked to fire and swirled through the air. The fire sped on a swirling dance of its own through a night-dark forest of sleeping giants. It touched each leviathan of death, leaving behind a crackling fragment of itself. Everywhere it rested, flames sprouted. Roaring and climbing, they enveloped whatever they touched, covering it with the energy of the dance.
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