The sundered capstone was a bad sign, but he still had a small hope that the opening of the door had gone unnoticed by the ancient spirit. Perhaps it had not yet reclaimed the portion of its power that lay entombed here, giving him a chance to block the opening until he could gather others to seal it again. If he probed the well and the spirit was awake and aware, it would try to take him. He feared that he was not strong enough to deal with it by himself, but no one else was here. If he took the time to summon others, the chance would likely be lost.
He hesitated. He had no desire to become a pawn of the enemy. Old as he was, he was not yet ready to surrender his life, or his freedom.
Necessity was a strong argument, as was duty. But shame was a goad. He was the warder. If he made no attempt to set things right, his disgrace would know no bounds.
Urdli called upon the great spirit of the Rock and wrapped himself in its protection. Here in this place of great power, the spirit was powerful. He felt as durable and strong as Rock itself. Strong enough? There was only one way to find out.
He planted his feet, dug his toes into the stone to hold his body steady, and sent his spirit down into the well of the capstone. The way was filled with fairy cobwebs that fluttered as he passed. The place was empty. What had been constrained here was gone.
Relief at not having to face that which terrified him warred with frustration at finding it gone. The proscribed power had escaped, and the old enemy would be stronger. But there might yet be time to prepare. With luck, it would focus its attention on other feuds before returning its envious and malicious eyes toward his own kind.
Though his gathered Strength might have been insufficient to deal with the old one, Urdli had no fear of the lesser inmates of the holding. He turned to the other wells of internment and found two of them empty, their occupants dispersed. Fortunately, the spirits still only stirred sleepily within the other wells. The long slumber imposed a lethargy on them that was to Urdli’s advantage. Calling upon the power he held, he drove them back down into their dreaming. To seal the wells, he scooped opal from the wall seam and molded it in his hands to create new guardian stones. He set each in place with spells that made these stones replacements for the stolen ones. At least some of the problems would remain entombed here.
The effort exhausted him. He released his hold on the Rock spirit and lay back to rest, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, he was hungry. There was no food to be had here, but he could drink from the pool. Crouching over it, he gazed down into the milky water. His reflection showed him a haggard face, dark eyes sunken into black pits of exhaustion that were obvious even against his dusky skin. He dispersed the disturbing image by dipping his hands into the water, but his worries remained. There was still much to do.
After his drink, he called the bunyip. When it did not respond, he was not surprised. The thieves could not have successfully departed with the stones without first overcoming the bunyip.
He crossed the bridge and walked up the slope to the tunnel. Crouching to clear the low ceiling, he traveled the short distance to the gate of the inner ward. He adjusted his senses and read its structure, seeking the anomaly he had felt when crossing the ward on his way to the chamber. Finding the flaw was not difficult. One of the thieves, a magician, had opened the gate and set it to admit four persons, though only three had left. Urdli tugged on the structure, restoring it to its original form. Later, when he felt stronger, he would reinforce the ward.
He turned back to the chamber and scanned it with the deep sight. There was no Sign of life, either amid the field of glowing prisons or down in the depths of the pool. The bunyip was dead, but so was one of the intruders. The beast had done its work, at least in part. A new one would be necessary.
Passing through the ward, Urdli walked to the cavern’s mouth. There, in the crisp, clean air, he caught the faint scent of the blood-soaked rocks. His deep sight saw the stain, and he felt the wound in the rock where the piton had been driven. Another of the intruders had died here.
He stepped off the ledge and, supported by his will, descended to the plain below. The grave of the climber was painfully obvious. The thieves had made no attempt to hide it. He left it alone; likely it would not offer any useful information.
The marks of vehicles scarred the ground nearby. Wide, deeply treaded tires ran to a protected cranny, then away again. Within the nook was a profusion of footprints. They meant little to him. He was no expert, but it looked as though there were only five sets, the climber and the four who had penetrated the holding. He gazed out along the path the tracks took. The trail would not remain long in the Outback. Already he could see a storm racing to cut across the thieves’ spoor.
He was angry with them. And with himself.
The guardian stone, though bereft of its primary function, was still an item of power. Its recovery was imperative, as was the punishment of the thieves. He could not track them mundanely, but there were other ways. He began to gather materials.
The dry mulga branch was in a gully. The ants brought him the teeth of a marsupial mole. He apologized to the bandicoot he trapped and killed for its tail. The tail he bound to the slender end of the stick, then he spat on it and sealed the join with a word. Sitting down in a wash edged in red clay, he began his songs.
Two nights passed before the curved mulga branch began to writhe and put out new sprouts. The new growth stretched out into four spindly legs, while the old twigs elongated into ribs. The bulbous end of the branch grew, forming first a cranium, then a snout. He tossed the teeth into the air and they swirled into place along the edges of the forked snout, growing in size as they did. Throat dry and voice cracking, he rose and changed the song. He strode to the clay, the stick beast capering at his side. Thrusting his hands past the dry upper layers of earth, he scooped out handfuls of the moist clay beneath and molded it around the wooden skeleton. He packed the beast with his purpose and magic. Slowly, it took on the shape of a lean hunting hound. Holding the head with one hand he gazed at the rough-hewn shape, featureless save for the mouth of sharp teeth.
“Kulpunya, I give you eyes that you may see those you hunt." he said, thrusting two fingers deep into its skull.
“Kulpunya, I give you nostrils that you may smell your prey where they hide." he said, pressing two smaller holes into the end of its snout.
“Kulpunya, I give you ears to hear the despairing howls of those you hunt unerringly." he said, modeling long flaps at the back of the head. “With your ears, hear my command, kulpunya. Find the desecrators. Hunt them down for me.”
The kulpunya howled, leapt from his grip, and raced away. Urdli watched its absurdly thin limbs churn, propelling it impossibly fast across the plain. It ran in silence, implacable and malevolent.
Urdli smiled.
4
Hohiro Sato was not in a good mood. The morning meeting with Atreus Applications, Incorporated had not gone well. The myopic fools at AAI were still being difficult. Even his personal appearance at their headquarters in the Hong Kong Free Enterprise Enclave had failed to convince the stubborn board of directors. When he had told them that Renraku’s interest in their company was utterly serious, they had seemed to think he was bluffing. They would learn, though. Sato wanted Atreus’s assets for the foundering Special Directorate. And he would have them. When AAI refused his offer of a staged stock buyout, they had sealed their own fate. Sato would suck them dry as soon as he could arrange the necessary change in circumstances.
But that was a pleasure belonging to the future. He had left the meeting irritated, and then his irritation became tinged with resentment upon receiving word that Grandmother wanted to see him. Now she had the temerity to keep him waiting. He was no junior salaryman to be summoned, however polite the phrasing of the order Nor was he a lackey to be kept cooling his heels. His vexation kindled a smoldering anger.
Staring between the blank-faced guards, he watched the inner door with its teak veneer. Briefly fantasizing that his
vision pierced the door's opacity, he pictured the scene beyond it. The garden was ablaze with rare flowers, a riot of colors tinted ever so slightly more exotic by the faint purple hue of the SunSub light panels. Insects serviced the plants, barely disturbed by the occasional visitor moving between one of the ring rooms and the central hub of the curved stairway that descended into darkness, into her sanctum.
He had long wanted to know what went on in her sanctum when he was not there, but never uncovered more than rumors. What he had learned was that she was well-protected. Even using the finest surveillance equipment, his agents had failed to penetrate the walls of the ring rooms. Even the magical skills of his tame mage, Masamba, could not pierce her barriers. Grandmother liked her secrets.
Secrets were her business.
From her lair Grandmother ran an international network that traded in information, usually clandestine. She traded in other things, legal and illegal, as well. Despite her personal eccentricities she was a premier power broker.
Having been only a junior salaryman when he had first encountered her network, Sato had benefited from the association. At several key junctures in his career confidential material had been passed to him, allowing him to embarrass rivals or blackmail them out of his way. The stimulation to his career was undeniable, but it galled him that she held power over him. She. A woman. At least she was a Japanese.
Each time he had used her information, she had sunk her hooks in deeper. He had fed her information in return, all the while knowing that it only gave her a tighter hold over him. The opportunities just seemed too great to ignore and her demands inconsequential in comparison. He had been younger then, hungrier . . . and stupider. Now he knew better, understood the nature of her hold over him. Someday she would demand something he was unwilling to give, then threaten him with ruin if he denied her. On that day, he wanted to be able to laugh in her face. He wanted to be too powerful for her to touch. So far, however, he had not succeeded in gleaning the information he needed to compromise her. Lacking that, he could make only vague plans. His best depended on a tool not yet ready. Until he knew more about her secrets, he was arming to fight wraiths.
One thing Sato knew for sure was that anger would gain him nothing. He forced it down, leashing it to his will. He would not be shamed into losing his temper before the woman. By the time her servant arrived to lead him into the garden, he was outwardly calm. Inside the fire coiled, a sullen dragon awaiting its time.
As in all his previous visits, he was required to leave his bodyguards in the ring room. The servant accompanied him along the gravel path, then left him to descend the stairway alone. He followed his own shadow around the central pole and down the winding way. He stepped confidently, even when his shadow obscured the stairs. The hum of the garden insects faded into silence, but the quiet was soon broken by a rhythmic sound that grew louder as he descended.
Click, clack.
Over and over.
Damn! She was at her loom agam. He hated it when she was weaving. The noise disturbed his concentration, and he did not like to be distracted when trying to deal with her. She was too sharp; he needed to be ready to pounce on the slightest clue to what might give him a hold on her.
He stopped briefly at the foot of the stairs, remaining in the shaft of light from above. There was deep darkness all around. She was out there in the dark that was part of her protection, but it offered little from him. His Zeiss eyes adjusted at his command, shifting to light amplification, and he saw her bent old shape seated before the loom. She looked no older than the day they had met, nearly two decades ago.
He didn’t doubt she was aware of him, but she made no sign. He called attention to himself by clearing his throat. Her hands never stopped moving. The shuttle flew back and forth, A gnarled hand racked the handles forward, snugging the latest line in the pattern firmly into place. Without taking her eyes or hands from her work, she greeted him in a wobbling, high-pitched voice.
“Ah, Sato-san, how nice of you to call.”
If she wished to pretend that she had not summoned him, he would humor her. Forcing politeness, he responded, “I was in Hong Kong. How could I not visit my Grandmother?”
She cackled. “Such filial devotion. I wonder, do you show so much to your real grandmother?”
His family was no business of hers, but he was sure she already knew the answer to her question, as she knew so much about him. Why could he learn so little about her? He refused to answer her question.
Click, clack.
“Well, then, Sato-san. How is your special project in Seattle prospering?”
That was a question she would not let him ignore. “Not very well at all.”
For a moment, the loom was silent. Then, click, clack.
“I am most sorry to hear that. I was so hoping you would have good news for me. You raised my hopes last year.”
He was sure he had. His own hopes had risen when the Special Directorate had seemed to have achieved their goal of creating a true artificial intelligence within the Renraku matrix. “I am sorry if you were disappointed. The disruption brought me more trouble than it did you.”
“Very true. But Aneki took it well, didn’t he?”
“Well enough.”
“Well enough, indeed. You have not been dethroned as the director’s heir-apparent, and you are still in command of the Seattle arcology. That shows a certain cleverness that I shall have to keep in mind when I think of you. Have you been telling your Aneki-sama pleasant things that you have neglected to tell Grandmother?”
“I have told him what I have told you. Since mismanagement in the Security Directorate allowed the loss of one of the principal designers, the Special Directorate has been stymied, demoralized, and beset with unavoidable delays. A significant amount of data was destroyed, and what remained needed to be checked. Hutten, the designer who was lost, was clearly defecting, as evidenced by his theft of key datafiles and custom components. As he was the architect of some of those lost components and left no reliable notes, the Directorate has not yet been able to duplicate the functions. We are no closer to achieving the goal than when Aneki assigned me to move things along.”
Click, clack. “The touted abilities of your toy would have been most useful. You have, of course, punished those responsible for the disappointment. What progress have you made in recovering Hutten?”
“None.”
Click, clack. The sound was harsher now. Sato knew he had better explain.
“There have been no notable advances among our competitors. The security agent responsible for the debacle was seen to have injured Hutten before she herself fell to her death, Perhaps fatally. He may be presumed dead. As to punishment, there is still no clue as to who was manipulating the rogue Verner.”
Click, Clack.
“Verner? The name seems familiar. Refresh an old woman’s memory, Sato-san.”
He doubted her memory needed refreshing. She was testing him, as always.
Years ago she had set him the task of tracking a handful of individuals. Renraku Corporation was a world leader in data technology, and his placement with the firm made him an obvious choice to arrange for surreptitious information-retrieval. He might have understood if the individuals she wanted tracked were important people, but most were inconsequential—But she was so persistent over the years, wanting to know everything about these people and their relatives, that he had come to believe she had some deep concern beyond that of an information broker. She seemed obsessed with the fate of these individuals, but he had never learned why. They seemed to have nothing in common save traumatic experiences during the turbulent year of 2039. Especially common were brushes with death on the infamous Night of Rage and in the turmoil that had followed. He had come to suspect that this matter touched upon something she . . . was “feared” too strong a word?
His belief in her fear had solidified two years ago when she commanded the interrogation of Janice Verner. The questions he had been required to as
k the girl were filled with paranoid suspicion. What did “they” want? What connection did “they” have with the Verner family? Then, so many seemingly unrelated questions. He did not know who “they” were, but he had come to believe that “they” really existed. Grandmother might be paranoid, but even paranoids have enemies. Anyone who gave her concern gave him hope. If he was careful, “they” might provide him a lever to pry loose her hold over him.
Not wishing to betray himself, he chose his words carefully. “The Verners are among those you watch.”
“Ah, yes. The woman was such a disappointment. Whatever happened to the man?” Click, clack.
“Little new information has emerged since he went rogue. We know he survived his raid on the arcology. We also know that a shadowrunner matching his description has been linked to a number of petty operations, mostly in the Seattle area. His continued existence seems likely, but remains untraceable.”
Click, clack.
“Surely the largest information corporation in the world keeps records.”
“On him, we no longer seem able. His file vanished from Renraku’s banks a few months after the Hutten incident, and every attempt to begin a new one has been fruitless. Each entry vanishes almost as soon as it is made. I believe that he is, or has acquired the services of, a computer expert of the highest ability. He or his accomplice has inserted a dedicated virus of hitherto unknown sophistication into the Matrix. Renraku resources have failed to isolate it. We know of its existence only by its actions, as it destroys all data connected to Samuel Verner.”
Click, clack.
“But not his sister’s data?”
“No. And in any case, that would be unnecessary. Her death was recorded on Yomi Island nearly a year ago.”
“I am intrigued.”
Click, clack.
“He was involved with Hutten. Perhaps your missing computer expert is still alive after all. Perhaps the nascent artificial intelligence was used to strip Verner’s identity from the Matrix. As you said, he had gone rogue. As a shadowrunner, he would find his corporate records a detriment.”
Find Your Own Truth Page 3
