by Carl Sargent
He looked down at the ruined corpse. “Who was he?”
“A local mage, Your Grace. I know that it was risky taking him, living so close to us,” Martin said, answering the look in Luther’s eyes. “But time is so short, Master, ana we couldn’t get any of the others in time.”
Luther walked away. He hated what had happened. He was used to coldness, rare feeding, years without the hunger. And when he fed he usually indulged in slow torture, protracted suffering, extracting all the terror possible. He loathed the coarseness of this new burning within him, felt soiled and disgusted by the bestiality of what it forced him to do.
The consolation, of course, was that he was less than twenty hours away from forever eliminating useless humanity from the face of this beautiful world.
* * *
Michael could scarcely believe his senses as the octopus icon happily stuffed data packets into his bag. Of course; he relied on the HKB link to preserve the anonymity. The security was given to stopping anyone linked to the Azanian company. His registration here in Vienna was absolutely open. Bioenergetica Archival. Vienna address. Check it out in the public database.
He whipped through the dataline junctions and past the SAN, sleazing his way past as he so loved to do, racing onward, his analyze program plunging into the street directory. Now, let’s get out and download, he thought, jacking out almost before he’d put the frame to work.
“That’s a message forwarding number if ever I’ve seen one,” he growled as the paper managed to make it out of the printer without being torn in half by his eager fingers. “It hardly matters, though. Here’s our name. Luther von Hayek.”
“Bingo,” Serrin said. “The Regensburg name.”
“What did your lady friend’s friend give you on him?”
“Luther von Hayek, born seventeen November twenty-ten, son of Luther and Mathilde von Hayek in Minchen, at a private medical clinic. Educated privately in Regensburg. His mother died in twenty-eleven.”
“Very convenient, that,” Michael commented.
“Father died in twenty twenty-eight. Luther Junior was privately educated by home tutors. No university education recorded. No existing photographs. Luther is believed to be elven, though any details of UGE or goblinization are lacking. Birth certificate doesn’t record any metatype, but that isn’t unusual, given the date. Interestingly, his birth certificate states that his father was born in Kralovice on 4.11.1956. Unfortunately, a fire destroyed all records there in twenty-twelve. Most convenient again, isn't it?”
“Where’s Kralovice?” Michael asked. “Poland?”
“No. That’s Katowice, isn’t it? Our place is in the west of the Czech Republic. Just across the border.”
“So, no records for Daddy then.”
“No. Explains the name, though; it’s Czech rather than German, except for that ‘von.’ Mind you, Julia’s chummer has tabs on a Luther Hayek, citizen of Zvolen—in Slovakia—circa eighteen-ten. The most interesting thing about him is a privately published pamphlet, author one Jesuit of the parish—if Jesuits have parishes—accusing him of necromancy and vampirism. No firm evidence of a link. The name isn’t that unusual. It could be just a coincidence.”
“So why’s she got our Luther down as a bloodsucker?” Michael asked. “I mean, it can’t be common knowledge, that’s for sure. I can’t imagine the Marienbad Council has an entry in their local tax office saying, ‘Make sure we get the full dollar from the vampire up the road next week’.”
“Look, the woman who gave Julia this stuff needed a lot of calming down before she was willing to give it up. It also cost me a hefty cred transfer. And you should have seen how scared Julia looked to be passing it. Julia’s contact asked her three times whether we had her name or ID. One time of telling her no wasn’t enough,” Serrin said. “That lady was definitely not lying.”
“I’ll go along with that,” the troll added.
Michael looked at them and shrugged.
“Look, she gave us the name. You confirmed it. It sounds like she did her homework properly,” Serrin said.
“And we know exactly where this Luther is?”
“Owns a monastery outside of Schwandorf. Just up the road from Regensburg.”
“So, we’ve got our man. Or our nosferatu, rather. Now we’ve got to analyze what we think we know.” Michael took a deep breath and ruffled a wad of virginally white vellum, reaching for a pen. “Let’s go through it one step at a time.”
They mulled over all that had happened, every piece of the jigsaw they’d gathered together. It took less time than Michael would have expected. It was what they were going to do with it all that worried him. One possibility, especially, sent a chill of fear down his spine.
“If this is the same guy ..Michael mused.
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“I mean, what if there’s only been one Luther all this time. From what little we have it looks like our modern-day Luther Junior was hardly ever seen—private tutors, all that stuff. Sounds like it could be the same Luther.”
“If he’s a nosferatu, why not?” Serrin pondered.
“Well, if he really is an elf that must mean that he was born one. Back at the tail end of the nineteenth century, or even earlier, in Slovakia. It’s possible, I gather; we know about spike births, but it would have required the mana at an incredible level for such an early birth. It’s not going to be a picnic if his magician’s talents reflect that fact.”
They were silent for a moment or two.
It was Michael who broke the silence. “Now, exactly what did Magellan say about Luther’s little surprise?” he asked Serrin.
“I can’t remember the precise words. Something about it being in the genes. A permanent fix.”
“So, not drugs then,” Michael said. “A genetic fix. But how could that be done? He can’t go around rewiring the DNA of every human being individually.”
“There’d have to be some kind of vector,” Serrin suggested.
Michael went white. He hadn’t any background in molecular biology, but he’d helped Geraint with some of his work in it when they were at the university. Enough had rubbed off on him to know the language of the discipline.
“A virus. A retrovirus,” Michael managed to say. “Works back into the DNA. He’s got a viral fixer. Something that won’t affect metatypes.”
The printer chattered behind him as he was mulling all this over. He almost didn’t bother to look, but, stymied in his thoughts, he ripped off the paper for something to do. His eyes widened as he read the text.
“Tracey’s been busy. I should have checked her out earlier. Three more kidnappings of mages have been reported while we were running around the globe. One in Beijing, suspected gang involvement. One in Atlanta, suspected corporate involvement. One in Regensburg, motive unknown. Yesterday. Well, well.”
“I’d say there’s absolutely no doubt at all now,” Serrin muttered.
“This Luther is getting hungrier. But that doesn't fit the nosferatu pattern,” Michael said, having read through Serrin’s scribbled notes on the undead. “They feed only rarely. The last six kidnappings that seem connected have occurred within a period of seven weeks. Why don’t you call Julia and ask her to talk to her friend again and find out what that could mean?”
Serrin was back with a reply within minutes. “She says she’s not a hundred percent sure, but that this would only happen if the nosferatu was storing, or using, a very high level of power. It would fit Luther, if he’s burning the midnight oil over this research, if he’s really consumed by it. Oh, and she says don’t ask for anything else. She’s disconnecting the line for now.” Having seen Magellan’s near-mania, Serrin thought this fit, and he said so to Michael. The Tir Taimgire elf was apparently not working for Luther, but the two shared a kind of madness that linked them somehow.
The Englishman nodded wearily. “So, what are we to do?”
“The authorities?” said Serrin hopefully.
“Wonder
ful. Let’s go and tell the German police that a dangerous nosferatu is kidnapping mages and concocting a world-killing virus up at the monastery. Do you think we’ve got enough evidence to substantiate that? We don’t have a single hard fact. All we have is our own testimonies. We don’t even have any proof that Luther was involved in the kidnappings. Nor can we prove that he’s a nosferatu.”
Serrin knew Michael was right. “I can't argue. Well, then, what?”
“Maybe Magellan was wrong,” Michael said hopefully. “You said he was a loony.”
“Luther’s doing something extraordinary,” Serrin pointed out. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be feeding the way he is.”
“So, then, what do you think?”
Serrin stared back at Michael, who wore an expression of utter helplessness. He’d built an almost airtight plot, but it didn’t have an ending. He didn't have a clue how to finish it.
“Do we have any contacts in Germany?” he asked. He was wracking his own brain.
“No,” Michael said. “Assuming you don’t, Tom?”
The troll smiled. He’d been happy to let the brains do the work so far, but he appreciated Michael’s not forgetting that he was there. Then he shook his head.
“But if we had to go somewhere to raise some dust without any contacts, Germany would probably be the best place in the world,” Michael continued, still thinking feverishly. “Berlin. We go to Berlin.”
“Why?” Serrin asked.
“Because it’s a madhouse. Complete anarchy. We won’t even need passports to get in; nobody ever checks them. And there’ll be plenty of people we can recruit for help. Metahuman policlubs, for one thing. But we’ve got to have something better than a tall, tall tale.” Michael paused as though thinking for a moment.
“No, we don’t,” he said suddenly. “We just need a tall, tall amount of money. All we have to do is find the right street shaman. Someone who could come with us and assense Luther’s place. Someone who can tell the local samurai that we’re right, that there’s something really bad there. That might convince a samurai to take the job. Surely. We’ve got to hope.” He went to the telecom and tapped in a code to London.
"One last thing before you vanish eastward,” he said to Geraint when the connection was made. “You’ll be getting my bill in due course, but I need a down payment now.”
“How much?” the weary Welsh voice asked.
“I think a couple of hundred should do it.”
“You’re bothering me for two hundred?” Geraint said incredulously.
“Two hundred thousand, old boy. Nuyen. You can make the transfer to the usual number.”
“What?” Geraint was incredulous. “Ship me the Empire State Building and we’ll talk about it.” He was about to break the connection when Michael played his ace.
“We need it. Wouldn't want HKB to know who’s been into their hard copy and told someone else about a certain ownership, now would we?”
Geraint looked like thunder. “You slimy fragging bastard! I’ll kill you for this.”
“No you won’t. Then HKB would definitely get to hear all about it. Come on, you’re worth millions. Do it.”
“Serrin, are you there?” Geraint demanded. When he heard the elf’s voice, he asked him if this was a stunt.
“No, old friend, it isn’t. I don’t know exactly why Michael thinks he needs so much, but we really are in Grade A megadrek here. It’s no stunt, believe me.”
The sincerity in Serrin’s voice calmed Geraint down a bit. He went back to talking with Michael.
“All right,” he grumbled. “But you’ll be working for me six months for this, you little swine, and I won’t forget this blackmail until hell freezes over.”
“Call it a mutually advantageous arrangement,” Michael said. Then added, “It’s a deal,” before breaking the connection. Within minutes the money was in one of his accounts, a fact he verified at once.
“You wouldn’t really have ratted on him, would you?” the elf asked. Geraint was a good friend.
“Of course I wouldn’t. When he stops to think about it, he’ll know that and calm down. But we needed the money. I don’t have that much in liquid assets,” Michael told him. “Hell, don’t worry about it. We used to do a lot worse to each other back in our schooldays, old boy.”
“I suppose we should book flights to Berlin, then,” Serrin said. He was feeling slightly disorientated. It was six in the morning, but it felt like the middle of the afternoon. The middle of the afternoon on a day after one of the world's most horrifically extreme binges on most forms of self-abuse known to man.
“I’ll get the credstick transfers ready so I can pick up the money at the airport,” Michael told him. “If we leave right away, we’ll be in Berlin by early afternoon. We can get some sleep and then go buy everything we can lay our hands on in the evening. And visit Mr. von Hayek tomorrow at dawn. Just when the sun comes up, heh-heh.” The Englishman groaned as he rose from his chair. He was stiff and his left arm still throbbed with a dull ache. Serrin lit a cigarette and coughed.
“God, does your body feel as bad as mine does?” he asked the elf. “I ache all over.”
“Snap,” Serrin replied with feeling.
“Ever get a massage from a troll who really knows what he’s doing?”
“Sounds appalling,” the elf replied with even more feeling.
“Does it? One hour after he’s pummeled your every muscle into burger meat you feel like death. You sleep some, you wake up and then you feel like you could run a marathon. I don’t usually need it, with my meditating, but I’ve been skipping my sessions for days and I think we should call out the Troll Roll for a service call.”
“Terrific. I can’t wait,” Serrin said laconically and coughed again.
“Oh, and just one other call,” Michael said quietly, walking into his bedroom. They didn’t listen in.
* * *
Niall landed the plane at Saint Malo and fumed for half an hour while he waited for the right official to turn up to examine his papers. Nantes or Paris, he wondered, which was quicker? It had to be Paris. He could fly to Munich from there. But that was the obvious route, and they might be following him . . .
Stop being paranoid, he told himself. It’s got to be Paris. I’ll never get a direct flight to Munich from Nantes, even if it is almost a hundred miles closer. I can make Paris by noon, Munich by four, probably, and then Schwandorf by six. I could do it tonight.
No you can’t, Mathanas let him know. You know how much time the rituals will take. You won’t be ready until the dawn. Let it happen at sunrise. Luther will always be a little less than his best at that time. You know, too, that assensing the place and examining the defenses will take hours. It cannot be rushed.
An hour delay might mean the crucial hour’s difference, Niall pleaded. It might be the hour during which he finally sets the thing free.
Mathanas considered, and told him that that was a chance they’d have to take. Niall drained a credstick and changed it for francs and marks in bills at the bureau de change. He bought himself a ticket for the Paris shuttle, then headed for the platform.
On the way he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. The change of clothes Patrick had prepared for him was rustic enough that he resembled a French farmer heading off to some mindless political protest or other, though his own dramatic features gave the lie to that. Tucking his hair down into the collar of the almost shapeless jacket, he stooped to hide his face and disguise his height. Then he shuffled on, slouched and with his head kept down, out onto the bare concrete of the almost deserted, litter-choked train platform.
* * *
Serrin argued with Kristen while Michael packed and Tom returned to his own room. He begged her not to come with them. She wasn’t trained in using a gun, she would be at risk, it was crazy. She was furious.
“I used it well enough before,” she protested, which was true enough. If she hadn’t gotten that head shot right, he’d have been drilled throug
h by the machine-gunner back in New Hlobane.
“But this is going to be different. Very, very dangerous,” he said.
“So? I want to be there,” she insisted. She had a way of tapping her right foot on the floor when annoyed, something he hadn’t noticed before. If not for the tenseness of the situation, he’d have found it desperately endearing.
“We’ll have plenty of muscle with us,” he said.
“You ain’t got no one yet,” she pointed out, “I won't let you go without me. Maybe I might have to pull the trigger for you again.” She smiled happily. It was her trump card and she intended to get maximum use out of it.
“And don’t forget,” she went on, grinning hugely, “I got two men in my life to take care of. There’s you, and there’s my husband.” Serrin couldn’t help but laugh; she’d won the argument.
“All right. But, promise me you’ll stay way back. You cover whoever’s going in, but you stay out.”
“Promise,” she said with a taunting grin, one that said, well, she'd do her best, but . . .
* * *
The troll lay on his bed, huge feet hanging over the end of it, looking quietly through the window at the early New York sun. With hands cupped over his belly, he dug the fingers of his left hand into the smartgun link he could feel below the skin of the other.
Damn it, if I hadn’t ruined my body with metal, he thought. I’d be a much better shaman. But it’s too late to go back and undo it all now.
Reflections seemed to rise up in his mind unbidden. What’s going to happen to me? I’m twenty-five years old. I got chosen by Bear. Everybody knows that doesn’t usually happen to street people. The street shamans I know, most of ’em go with Rat, a few with Dog—the better sorts—and I’ve run into a few Cat folk. But Bear doesn’t often show up in the city. Yet I don’t feel out of place there ... here. Strange .. .
His mind flashed back to New Hlobane. Without the slightest chance of finding Serrin, he’d done so. And he’d accomplished it by trying to do absolutely nothing, just being empty and still. He couldn’t make sense of that. Tom had spent his whole life trying to do things: running the shadows, killing, stealing, drinking in the bad old days, working in downtown Seattle in the better ones. Anything he’d got from life, anything that had any meaning for him, he’d gone out and actively sought to get, or at least tried to.
