Queen City Deva

[Aedh]

073


Sunday, 18 October


Ralna opened her eyes at 05:03:29. Despite her day off, she had not reset her wakeup. But the start time between actual awakening and coming fully online was getting longer, now nearly three-and-a-half minutes, which might become a matter for concern. A self-diagnostic was clearly in order, but not yet.

During her morning yoga and martial arts routines she kept her mind clear, but during her exercises she processed her customary pre-breakfast news summary, synthesized from ‘net and ‘vid sources. There were some items for DRT, domiciliary research time. The Boren Avenue-Bayshore checkpoint shootout got coverage; officials had mentioned no names, but not ruled out a link to Thursday’s Belltown massacre. Officers had raided the offices of AltaCal Import and Export, Mr. Enrique Cabrera’s company--he who had not resolved his business with Sir to Sir’s satisfaction, and who was wanted as a person of interest with regard to smuggling activities and certain other incidents. Four of the five Terrace Street basement bodies had been identified as Asian Triad members, and an inquiry into Triad activities was to be launched. The body of a man in his sixties was found floating in the harbor. All this was pushing Ralna’s own Thursday morning lobby incident off the pages, which was entirely satisfactory.

Neither last nor least, the Tunnel updates were mixed with news of the Chelly incident; the perpetrator or perpetrators were said to be the same, or strongly linked, and public caution was enjoined. This was hardly necessary. The ‘net crawl brought up enormous amounts of fear buzz from the community, with rumors that the sinister, suited figures were humod. That was grounds for concern. She had researched extensively, and had no evidence that any humod but herself was in existence, at least in North America. The idea that humods were back and had declared war on humans was prima facie ridiculous; but she thought again of Taylor, and Adela, PHEs if not humods, and of the growing number of cut-and-drain bodies which were turning up, and vampirism. The Chelly and Tunnel killers were obviously not vampires, but if vampires were about, it would explain certain recent trends.

She dressed casually, and had breakfast as usual. Today, like every day, meant a morning datasession with Sir. Until a few days ago she had never evaluated the parameters of her own data uploads. The amount of information that went out varied by a few gigabytes from day to day, but exactly what was logged, and how, was secret even to her; only Sir knew. He had evinced no dissatisfaction with her performances, other than her first day, although she was including independent actions in her daily work that were not part of his approved curriculum for her. Were data from her organic component, her residual biological brain’s memory, processed, or only that which went directly through her hard drives? In any case, there was far too much for him to read through manually. Did he simply comb the results for key words or numbers? It was possible for an AI program to produce a brief summary; perhaps that was it. Or, busy as he was with campaign activities, perhaps he did nothing with the data other than store it for possible future reference.

She looked at the com-unit, which flashed at precisely the usual time. She picked up. His voice gave the session’s unique alpha-numeric code, with frequency and sigma, and she downloaded. Then, with no extraneous comments or questions, she gave him the previous day’s upload, and that was that. Although she was prepared, he was not always asking for verbal summaries now. She had, presumably, proven her organic skills to him.

As she processed the information he had sent her, one item stood out in particular: his son Jason was missing. That he did not discuss this verbally was understandable. Verbal communication was not wholly secure, as databurst was. Jason had left the island in his car yesterday afternoon, driven to Bayshore Hospital, checked in as a visitor, and then, according to a PD-Net report, had been detained by sheriff’s deputies under the Terrorist Act, after which his trail had vanished. This, she knew, was a problem for Sir, who had booked Jason to fly out to Los Angeles and relative safety this very afternoon. He had calls out to contacts in the City police; she was to be ready if needed. And John Brunett was also missing, but she was not yet to involve herself in that matter either. Still, as she processed the data, it was logical that there should be some connection between a police shootout near Bayshore Hospital, shortly after Jason had been taken from there, and another Bearer vanishing on the same day.

For no apparent reason, she remembered something spiritual that a yogi had told her in India during her training there: You are never closer to God than in the moment you first meet Him. Thereafter, for every step you take toward Him, He draws away two steps. God is the One who draws out, who with-draws. Then, she had processed the information, but now she understood. Sir was like that. He had given her time off from the office, from his presence, but that didn’t mean time away from duty; it meant that duty grew. He withheld some tasks from her, and conferred others, for reasons known to him. Already there was enough, but she was able. She had two busy days ahead. Apart from her own simple needs, they would be devoted entirely to advancing the fortunes of her Sir. The test was hard, and the work would not be easy. It would require sacrifice in blood, both others’ and her own. But every deed, every moment, every drop she gave for him, returned to her again and enriched her. With duty, she grew daily in will and in skill. Nothing was lost. Much was gained. It only remained to keep the path, to clear away the unessential.


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If Father Craig O’Hanlon was worried about having too much explaining to do at the social hour after Mass, he was saved by a timely call which arrived just as he was hanging up his alb in the sacristy. “Hello, Merilee,” he said. “Is there any news yet?”

“None, I’m afraid,” she replied. “I was going to ask for news from you. How was Mass?”

“I had to make the announcement, of course, and ask for prayers. Everyone is concerned. Did you say you had reported John missing?”

“I can’t, Father. The moment he is reported missing, it goes out over the general police network, and would alert many people we’d really rather not have looking for him. I talked to Rhys Macklin about it, and we decided it’s best to use private means to search for the time being. Besides, the news that he was abducted from the church itself would not be helpful for the parish.”

“No,” he agreed slowly. “Things get harder, it seems, the more we try to make them easy. How is Kayleigh taking it?”

“She’s managing. She seems upset and withdrawn, but that’s hardly any surprise. I wanted to ask you, though … do you think that Janine Sandoval has anything to do with this?”

“I shouldn’t think—“

“Father, I know you have some kind of, um, relationship going on with her--I don’t mean that necessarily in a bad way. You see each other privately, and she’s not a parish member, and I’m pretty sure she’s not even a Catholic. But I want your promise as a priest that whatever her business is, it had nothing to do with John. Can you give me that?”

He thought back to his meetings with Janine. Some took place at his residence, some at hers. She had seduced him. She seemed to like talking spiritual lore with him, and had a deep, if irregular, knowledge of it. She was a dab hand at hypnotism, and sometimes put him under. And as a price for her companionship, she occasionally took some of his blood. It was bizarre, but it had nothing to do with John that he could see.

“Yes,” he said. “Janine’s business is with me, personally. Nothing else that I’m aware of.”

“Alright, then, thank you. One less worry on my mind.”

“Anything we can do for you, just ask. The Knights of Columbus and Legion of Mary members are already spreading out on the island and beyond, looking out for him. You and Kayleigh, and John of course, are in all our prayers.”

“Thanks, Father,” she said, and murmured a blessing, and rang off.


>< >< ><


Janine, as it happened, was visiting David in the Alder Island Medical Center, where he had been kept overnight for observation. As she signed in, she said hello to Vonda, Vonda Dixon, now. She noted that Vonda was walking a bit more bowlegged than usual; obviously the wounds in David’s back hadn’t affected anything in front. She went over to David’s room, knocked, and went in, half-expecting to find him at it again, a nurse kneeling astride him, her back arched and her scrub pants down around her knees, but he was simply laying in the bed. Maybe he really wasn’t up to speed yet.

“Hey,” he greeted her. He had color and seemed well, but he seemed different. Vonda’s look had betrayed nothing; so, Janine gathered, the difference was toward her. But she smiled nonetheless, and carried on. “How are you, David?” she asked.

“Good enough.” He smiled wanly, but again, different; not toward her. “I’ll be outta here this afternoon, I suppose, as soon as they’ve finished one more round of tests. I’m glad to see you’re alright.”

“A bit achy,” she said. “And I think I lost a couple of eyebrow hairs to singeing.”

“Yeah, about that. Could you shut the door, please?” She did, and went over and had a seat by his bed.

“I told your story,” he began. “You hear anything back about that?”

“I told mine, and it all went down well. Everything is taken care of.”

“As far as they’re concerned.” He motioned his head toward the door. “I’d like a few more answers. Why did you kill her?”

“I think it’s more like, why she wanted to kill us.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why would she want to kill us?”

“She wasn’t a real student, David. She was a twenty-three-year-old who took up here under a false identity in order to spy on us, and on the school.”

“Why? You have proof of that?”

“I caught her at it. She admitted it to me.”

“What, and you didn’t turn her in to the police? That’s a crime.”

“I only knew for a few days, and she didn’t tell me everything. I wanted to find out. I guess she didn’t want me finding out, and you were in the way.”

“Yeah, so then again, why not the police? Why kill her?”

She crossed her legs. “I acted in self-defense. She tried to kill us; she shot you—twice. I didn’t mean to crush her head on the concrete block. I just meant to knock her out.”

“Was she already dead, then, when you ripped her body open and tore out her heart with your bare hands?”

“Yes, she was. Look—“

“What the fuck, Janine? Why rip her heart out, throw it on the floor, and then set fire to the place?”

“I set fire to it because I wanted to cover up what I’d done to her.”

“And what the hell made you do that?”

She looked down, hesitating. “I … I was angry.”

“No, you weren’t. Not just angry. That goes a whole lot further than just angry.”

“I was very angry. Look, she was a spy, a criminal. She tried to kill us—kill you! I went berserk,” she said, suddenly looking into his eyes. “I would rather die myself, a hundred times, than see you die, and that is the truth. I wanted her to live and suffer. When I saw she had died and cheated the suffering, I just wanted to do something hateful to her before she was taken and laid away in the ground. I saw what I had done, and set the fire to keep people away from it. It was wrong, I know that. But I told your mother, and she is making sure it’s cleaned up. No one will ever know this except you, me, and her.”

“Yeah, I guess. So you knew about her. Is that anything to do with this ‘sick vampire sex blackmail thing’ she mentioned?”

“Alright, if you must know.” She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. “We were having sex. Kinky sex. She liked it. We kept on after I found out about her. It added danger to the mix. We both liked that. I never thought it would get to murder attempts, though.”

“H’m.” David was silent for a moment, and finally said: “You know, Janine, I’m a big guy, but I’m not a palooka. There is a brain in here, believe it or not.” He tapped his head. “Something tells me there is a lot more to this. That you’ve told me a bigger and better version of the story we told the others.”

“There sure as hell is a lot more to this. Have you been watching the news? Use that brain, now; three days of slaughter in the city, and a lot of people are saying it’s breeders. ‘Breeders’ means us—the Island. Yesterday, Jason Macklin was caught and TA’ed in Seattle, and John Brunett was abducted--snatched right out of his church. And you were shot in the back. All three Island Bearers hit on the same day. Coincidence? What do you think?”

David looked down.

“Debi wasn’t who she pretended to be,” Janine hammered on. “And Merilee, she doesn’t let just anyone get next to John. It had to be someone they knew. And what brought Jason over to the city? A Bearer doesn’t go there for no reason. Probably—“

“—someone he knew,” he finished.

“That’s a big ten-four,” she replied. “But you go to the cops with something like this--? Please. Chief Gepitulan’s writ stops at the water. He can’t touch anything in the city, and the cops there—humph! It’s a shit storm. You think they’ve got time for us? What are they gonna do if someone else comes after you? Think about that.”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing. This is it, Thomsen. Yesterday was the day it all went south, and anyone who doesn’t get that today gonna be left wondering what hit them tomorrow.” She got up. “So, there you go. I’ll be in touch. Anything else to catch up on before I go?”

He reached out with a big hand and took her forearm, looking up at her. “I seem to recall, we have unfinished business from yesterday. Are you wearing underwear?”


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Jason’s night and morning had not passed as comfortably as he might have wished; but, he thought, probably better than most Terrorism Act detainees. He hadn’t slept well, but few Bearers ever did. At some point in the evening he had been moved again, with another short ride and a new room in a new building. There was furniture, a bed, and TV. There continued to be two armed guards close by, either just inside or just outside his door. His typical Bearer’s appetite—large and lively—had been kept at bay with delivered food of various sorts, and his other needs had been tended to by three people named Neema, Shamber, and Reggie. Reggie in particular had surprised him, being a large, heavily-muscled man built along David Thomsen’s lines, and Jason wasn’t sure who would be doing what to whom. But Reggie was simpatico—all three were, and Sarah DeJong herself, in athletic clothes, had returned for another go after breakfast. The most disturbing part was still being incommunicado. He was sure his dad was royally hacked off at him by now, and the excuse was still that there was no secure communication, which Jason no longer believed; but there was nothing for it but to wait.

Late in the morning—he guessed—while the TV was on, and Neema was cuddling up against him on the couch, Sarah returned. She had a case with her, with papers and a tablet; this would be business. Neema at once got up, smiled a regretful, goodbye smile, straightened her clothes, and left, and Sarah came over and perched on the couch’s arm. “How are things, Jason?” she asked.

“Great, when I get to talk to my dad,” he replied. “Until then, okay, thanks.”

“You’ll be glad to hear we’re getting to that,” Sarah answered with a smile. “We’ll be able to get you out of here very soon—any time now, in fact. Someone’s coming to pick you up.”

“Who?”

There was a knock at the door, a murmur, and then it opened. Jane Macklin walked in, looking exactly as Jason remembered her from about five years ago, including the very same clothes and bleach-blonde crop; her crows’ feet had grown a little, and she’d gone to pinker lipstick, and you could see the corner of her mouth twitching for a cigarette. But she was smiling, like Sarah, and that unsettled him even more. He never recalled her smiling unless someone was about to get one between the ribs, and he had a guess about that.

“Hello, Jason,” she said, pulling up a chair from the table and turning it around close to him; very close to him. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He said to Sarah: “Oh, it’s the woman who tried to have me killed when I was two.” Then he turned to his mother. “Hello, woman who tried to have me killed when I was two, or can I just call you, ah, Wom-hoo for short?”

“Jason,” said Jane patiently, “that’s a long time ago, fifteen years. I was going nuts then. Things have come a long way since then.”

“Like Dad’s bank account, yeah, I get it.” He turned. gesturing to Sarah, palms up. “If this is your plan, seriously, I’d rather take my chances with the angry mob or whatever.”

“Jason, I know. Everyone knows you and your dad don’t get along with Jane. That is why the best place to hide you is with her. She’s suing your dad for custody. Who would think of looking for you at her place?”

“It’s not forever, Jason. It’s just a visit, that’s all,” added Jane gently. “Yes, I admit, I don’t get on with your dad, and yes, I think he ought to share a little more with the mother of his children now that he’s rich. But that’s him, not you. I’m talking about you now. I don’t blame you for any of that. You’re my son too, Jason. I want to get to know you, a little, anyway. Catch up, you know. I love you, too. I just—I just don’t always show it well. Things happen to people.”

“Three conditions,” said Jason. The women looked at him. “One, I get security. It doesn’t have to be uniformed cops at the door, but it has to be someone within eyeshot and earshot, around the clock, and I get someone to keep me company inside too. Neema or Shamber, if you like. Two, I don’t care how it happens, I get to make a call before I leave this room, just one. I’ll keep it short, but it has to be private. Three, this visit lasts forty-eight hours, no more, no way. After that I’m gone, even if I just walk, and this whole goddamn thing is over.”

“That’s—“ started Jane.

“—Is something we need to discuss in confidence for a moment,” interrupted Sarah. “Isn’t it, Mrs. Macklin?” she finished, giving the latter a hard look and getting up.

A scowl scudded across Jane’s brow, but she, too, arose, and went with Sarah to the far end of the room.

“Play along,” whispered Sarah.

“What about my end?!” whispered Jane fiercely.

“Two days, realistically, is about all we’ve got anyway,” replied Sarah. “You can bet Rhys is gearing up. He can get an emergency court order by tomorrow. Jason is a minor. You could be done for abduction if this goes wrong, and it will go wrong if Jason wants it to. And you can bet he knows all that. Hell, he could walk out of here right now and we couldn’t stop him legally. You want to bring Rhys down. So do I. So does Leonard, but with Leonard’s way we all go down. Rhys will make a move today or tomorrow, and then we’ve got him.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” spat Jane. “You argue his side well, Sarah--are you sure you’re not on it?”

“I like my freedom, and I think you like yours, and we’d make lousy cell mates,” replied Sarah. “Leonard can get away with this shit. He has executive immunity under emergency powers. Me, not so much. But if this comes off, there’s a billion dollars in it for you, and a good bit for me. So use some charm, will you? It costs nothing, so lay it on.”

Jane reached out with a finger and pushed Sarah gently but firmly on her chest, mouthing something, and then faced around to look at Jason with a brilliant smile. “Deal,” she said to him. “Say hello to Mom.”

He looked at Sarah, who echoed: “Deal.”

“My PDA?” asked Jason.

“A call was part of the deal, but not whose PDA it was to be on,” said Sarah, reaching into her bag. “Here, use mine.”

The boy retreated, dialed, spoke not a dozen words, and punched a few buttons, no doubt clearing the device’s call record. The call could still be tracked down, but it would take some time. While Neema had another duty assignment, Shamber, it turned out, was made available by her superior, and they were on their way within the hour.


>< >< ><


Oscar Espinoza had left his home office in the First Hill neighborhood and gone down to his local coffeehouse for a Sunday cappuccino and a look at the print papers, as was his habit. There he often talked a little business with a friend or ally. However, as he studied the large man in the dark glasses and coat, sitting on the little wooden chair opposite him like a raccoon atop a fencepost, he could not recall ever having entertained an employment application there before.

“What did you say your name was again?” Oscar asked.

“Burt,” replied the other. “Burton Cloutier, but people call me Burt, or BC.”

“And what makes you think I want any hired help, Burt?”

“I heard you had a vacancy. Enrique’s not doin’ your biz any more, and that’s a good call. If you’re gonna replace him, you want a pro.”

“Who?”

“Come on, Mr. Espinoza. How many nephews you got? Enrique Cabrera,” said Burt imperturbably. “Your ex-mover who handled the activities that generated your extra income. Enrique shipped nick, coke, a few other chemicals, and selected flesh, until he got bored with it and made a deal outside the club with Rhys Macklin, to hijack some Chinese black tech for him. That was outta his league. Cutting in bent cops? Get out,” Burt said. “Then he tries to blow up Macklin when it goes sour. Seriously. What a moron.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I was there, working for the Triads.”

“And now you wanna work for me? You want to walk out on the Triads? I shouldn’t think you’ve got much of a life expectancy, Burt.”

“Mostly you’d be right. But I was a hired contractor, not a blood member. My boss is on the outs, and I have a release from the Róngyù himself. There would be certain terms and conditions, one of which is that I don’t disclose anything about my former employers. Not that I know much. As I say, I just got called in for jobs.”

“Your boss who’s on the outs, what was his name?

“Bao Zhan.”

“Friend of Leonard Chung’s, is he not?”

Burt shrugged. “Worked with him, yeah. Friend, I dunno. Stuff like that’s above my pay grade. You just give me a job, who, what, where, when, and I do it.”

“What was your last job, if I may ask?”

“I’d rather you didn’t, but I’ll tell you. Terrace Street. Bao wanted a woman whacked. Said it was a rush job and gave me four Triad apes to do it. Said she was some kind of ex-military special forces pro who had jacked a load of tech from one of the Róngyù’s guys. I didn’t like that. I always say, you want ta off a skirt, get another skirt to do it. Women or kids, it’s always bad news, no matter what. Something sticks to you that never comes off.”

“And it was bad news,” said Oscar, warming to Burt’s philosophy.

“Fuck, yeah. She took out all four of the Triads, and we got her boyfriend, but we didn’t get her. She was a pro, all right.”

“Are you sure? My sources say she was a hooker named Taylor Light.”

“Well, she wasn’t just a hooker,” said Burt. “Bao wanted me to have another go at her, and I told him to prong off and I called the Róngyù on him. He agreed and released me. I had my ear to the ground, and here I am.”

“H’m. Suppose I wanted a little, shall we say, demonstration, Burt? One errand for me, to be paid, no obligation, and if that worked out, maybe we could start a—hum—relationship.”

“I’m listening.”

“Nels Anderson. The councilor. Payback for a double murder a week ago Friday on North Fiftieth—two woman, I might add. That would be a favor for me, and for an important man I know.”

Burt had touched his earpiece, then pulled out his PDA and was checking something. “Leonard Chung?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Then you’ll need to find something else.” Burt turned the PDA around. New Harbor Body Is County Councilor, said the headline.

“Nels?” asked Oscar.

“Yep, according to my darknet feed,” said Burt, scrolling. “Ouch. Turned inside out. Literally. Looks like something got up in him and pulled his guts out through his ass.”

Oscar winced. “I did not need to hear that an hour after lunch,” he replied severely.

Burt got up. “Well, you have a burner number for me. Give me a call. If it goes thorugh, you’ll know I’m still interested. If it doesn’t—nice meeting you, Councilor.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, mostly,” nodded Oscar. Burt left, and Oscar got out his own PDA and punched a number, and started speaking Spanish.


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[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

074



Rhys was using his rented campaign office in Alder Island’s downtown strip for the first time. It was basically a dressed set for staging ‘vids, and he expected no visitors; but after recording a segment for broadcast on a candidate forum, and prior to another holomeet with his campaign consultants, he had a visitor. The sound person let her in, and she took a seat by his desk.

“Hello, Holly,” he greeted. “I’m sorry for the trouble you were put to. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that, but that is why we lined up your temporary employment with Insta-Bang.”

“And it worked,” said Holly, with a half-smile. “You should a’ seen that cop’s face. I have something for you.” She produced a small plastic zip bag from her pocket, and placed it on the desk. “The goods. I hope it’s worth it, because I’m not going to do any more errands in the city for you. Although your friend Aziz might be able to tempt me.”

“Thanks, Holly,” he replied, moving the bag to one side. “I really do appreciate it, and no, I won’t ask any more. However, you know that John Brunett has been abducted, and taken there, most likely, if he hasn’t been hidden somewhere on-island. I’m coordinating with Merilee, and, off-book, with Chief Gepitulan. We can’t put out a missing persons report, for obvious reasons. If you hear anything—“

“Of course, believe me. We only have three Bearers now, and if Jason thinks what I think he’s thinking, John’s the only one we’re likely to keep here. Helping find John isn’t a favor for you, it’s a mission for the whole island.”

“It is, which is why I’m taking time from my campaign to follow it up myself as well,” he answered. “Anything you find out, I’d be happy to know.”

She rose. “I’ll keep an ear open. I guess we’re done here now. You get what I meant about errands. On-island, you can count on me for anything.”

“Of course,” he said, getting up as well and walking around to her side. The top of her head barely rose to his jacket’s shoulder seam. They shook hands, she left, and he told the three-person ‘vid team: “Might as well just roll it up. Your gear will be safe enough here, and you’ll be back again tomorrow.”

“Okay,” agreed the director, and they picked up their coats and left, too. Now alone for a few minutes before picking up his holomeet, the big man checked messages and headlines on his PDA. There was a headline that made him frown for a moment, and a message from Oscar Espinoza, which he sat down to return immediately.

“Thank fuck,” came Oscar’s voice, without prelude. “You reached me on the street, which is the right place for me to talk to you. Did you see the news?”

“Yes, when I looked in the mirror this morning,” said Rhys. At a splutter from the other end, he added: “Just a little campaign humor there.”

“No one who saw what was left of Nels Anderson is laughing,” Oscar shot back. “Was that your doing?”

“I found out about it one minute ago, so, no, it’s not.”

“You’re gonna have some convincing to do. You’ve got a rep in certain circles.”

“I only saw the headline. How and where’d he die?”

“In the harbor. Like the women in the harbor.”

“So the harbor killer’s started on men. So what?”

“So he was in custody, last anyone saw.”

“Really?” One of the big man’s eyebrows went up. “That is news.”

“Look, goddammit, Rhys, you’ve got to level with me. I lost Juan. I sold out Enrique, my own nephew, for you, and this is how you repay me?”

“I’ll level with you. Juan was an accident. He tried his sleazeball routine on a woman who happened to be my PA, who knows self-defense, and he took a bad fall, mala suerte. As for Enrique, he sold himself out. You couldn’t stop him. He wanted to work for me, I let him try out. I gave him a simple job to divert a shipment for me. He subcontracted it to a halfwit, lost the stuff, then botched the chance I gave him to make it right. Then Juan dies from his injuries, and Rico decides he’s got a problem with my employee. Does he take it up with me? No, he does not. He tries to have her assassinated, in broad daylight, in the lobby of my office building, and he gives the job to the same halfwit who loused up the other job for him, if you please. Then Quinta—yes, I know Quinta—blows the whistle on him. Even the Queen City cops noticed him then. What are we supposed to do with a clown like that, Oscar? I’m not running a circus.”

“No,” admitted Oscar.

“No. I don’t have many friends. I certainly wouldn’t have one killed just to add a few votes to my already-wide lead in the polls. I’m sorry, Oscar. I’m still your friend, if you want. I’m sorry for Juan, and I’m sorry about Rico, even. I won’t touch him—I can’t touch him. But if he knows what’s good for him, he’s out of here southbound. Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Rhys. I’m just—ah, fuck it. What’s happening to this town?” asked Oscar sadly.

“Look around, viejo. Winter’s coming,” said Rhys. “Don’t get caught outside.” Then he ended the call.


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In the meantime, Sarah DeJong was also returning a call in her office, where she had stopped by. She would have preferred to avoid it, but a message from Leonard Chung was not to be ignored.

“We had a team ready to interview Jason Macklin, and lo, he disappears as if by magic,” said Leonard. “I spoke with Deputy Chief Earle, who referred me to you. Madam Manager, you will explain.”

“We were on the way to pick Jason up. We had a warrant, issued on his possible involvement in the Belltown case. It would have been illegal to do anything other than what we did.”

“And you circumvented the law by not booking him properly at the detention facility, and releasing him again without even questioning him. Did you not?”

“He is a juvenile, and juvenile rules apply. And as for questioning him, I questioned him myself. Twice.”

“I’ll bet you did, and I’ll bet his replies are still oozing out into your panty liner. So where is he?”

“I’m not obliged to tell you that without a subpoena,” said Sarah. “However, I’ll see to it that all the information he provided is passed on to you for review.”

“You’ll have something more than a subpoena. You’re looking at charges. Unless you released him to juvenile services or his father, you’re guilty of aiding and abetting an abduction, contempt, and obstruction, at the very least. Those charges will be laid in the morning if you don’t turn him over by tonight.”

There was a moment of silence, and Sarah said: “Bring it on, then. If you can.” She ended the call immediately.

On his end, Leonard laid his hands on his desk slowly, but with such a look on his face that Sulin, who was just opening the door, withdrew.

He allowed himself a few moments to think about things to do to Sarah, and how long she might live to feel them. Then, half-reluctantly, he brought his thoughts around, rising from his chair, removing his shoes, and quietly assuming a basic t’ai ch’i stance on the carpet.

He had a vacancy on the County Council. The election was near, but there was, of course, no doubt as to who would win that seat now. He could appoint someone to fill it until the new term officially began. That job, without a reassignment, would also bring with it the Committee Chair for Law Enforcement, a responsibility become so toxic that no one in their right mind would accept it.

He moved, and thought.

The way of Tao meant not only not opposing circumstances, but being one with them, becoming them. Macklin was going to win no matter how the balloting was adjusted. He would inherit Anderson’s Committee position. And why not? It would bring him inside the club, but also subject him to its rules—rules over which he, Leonard, presided. What could be gained by delay? Why not, as the slag had bidden him, bring it on?

He thought, and moved. She had given him information after all.

After a few minutes, he completed his series, bringing him next to his desk, where he touched a spot. “Sulin, in my office, please.”


>< >< ><


The apartment on Seventeenth, just around from East Mercer in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, was part of a row; each had its own semi-enclosed rear entrance on the back lot next to the covered parking spaces. This was convenient for Ralna, who had just rung at Number Four. Footsteps sounded inside, nearing the door, then silence. She was being scrutinized through the peephole. A bolt and chain were drawn, and the door opened to reveal the man from the press conference, a sandy-haired fellow about ten years Ralna’s senior. “Hi,” she smiled. “Stephen Miller? I’m Ralna. I’m glad we could meet.” She extended a hand

He smiled back. “Me, too,” he said, taking her hand for a shake. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. She had a grip. “Come in.”

“Thanks.” As she entered the dim residence, her view altered to adjust for the low light, and a number of mindwindows popped open, scanning for unusual heat signatures, evaluating electrical fields, processing sounds and scents. She followed him through the short back hall, past washer, dryer, pantry closet, and bathroom door, and more MWs appeared and disappeared as she scanned his biosignatures, sampling his circulatory and pulmonary profile and brain waves, and, when he turned again, his retinal changes. All were within normal parameters at the moment; there was yet no evidence that he was anything but what he had said he was at the press conference, a concerned citizen.

He invited her to have a seat on an overstuffed sofa; this she declined, aware of her weight and preferring a less-enveloping chair. She also declined his offer of refreshment, and after a few polite remarks about the weather and traffic, led with the purpose of the meet. “So, I understand you had some questions, which I couldn’t very well commandeer Dr. Macklin’s press conference to talk about, you understand. I’m happy to talk about myself to voters on my own time.”

“I appreciate it,” he smiled, settling down in another chair with a cup of ‘bux. By that time, she had had time to run a detailed visual check on the cluttered living room, and saw no evidence of hidden cams, though there might be a microphone.

“Let me ask first, is this personal? I mean, is this on the record for someone else?”

“No, not at all,” he said, his hand and face muscles twitching slightly. “I do a bit of blogging, so I’m curious by nature, but just personal. I’ll ask you if I want to use anything.” She nodded. “So, just curious, about you. What is your background? Are you really an immigrant?”

“Yes. I was born, raised, and went to school in Medellín, Colombia. When I was sixteen, our family moved to Mexico, and I did some college in Mexico City.”

“Your English is very good. Flawless.”

“I grew up speaking it. My parents both worked in an American establishment, and they wanted me to learn firsthand.” He nodded. “My father’s employers were bought out. I was old enough, so I left home and looked for good-paying work so they didn’t have to support me. It was hard to find something that suited me, and it didn’t help that I wasn’t Mexican. I had several jobs, but nothing lasted. My English was good, so I decided to come north. I entered legally, spent a year working in an office in Nevada, and my boss sponsored me for naturalization. It was okay, but still not what I really wanted. I’d heard about Queen City, and decided to try my luck here.”

“And landed a job working for Rhys Macklin immediately.”

“I didn’t know who he was. I wanted an office job. His was the first one I applied for on the ‘netboard. He called right away and I guess he liked what he saw.”

“What do you know about Macklin’s connection to a possible revival of humod technology?”





“You have to remember,” Ralna said, “I’m a new hire. I’ve only spent seven days in his office. I’m still learning basic routines related to his consultancy for law enforcement, and been thrown into handling some of his campaign work.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” queried the man. “You’re a public employee, aren’t you?”

“No. Dr. Macklin is a private consultant, not a public employee, and I am paid out of his pocket.”

“Are you saying you don’t know anything about humod, then?”

“Dr. Macklin renounced all of that years ago. Way before my time. I wouldn’t care to bring up the issue with him. Perhaps that is why he preferred to hire someone who was being raised in South America when it was the issue of the year here.”

“And the sudden death of your predecessor, Louise Skogsted? Does that not concern you at all?”

“I understand it was suicide, related to depression issues. Unfortunately that does happen with older people, especially ones who have lost a spouse.”

“Not everyone thinks so,” said Stephen Miller. “I have evidence that her neck was broken pre-mortem.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised. He nodded. “Well, I never heard anything about the police report,” she added thoughtfully.

“I have it, as well as evidence that he was in touch with some companies, and some people, with ties to illegal traffic in tech and tissue.”

“I don’t know … remember, he is a consultant whose job is to investigate things. Maybe he was following up some suspicious activity by someone.”

“So you’re not aware that he’s been engaging in any of that?”

“As I said, I’m still new, and I am sure he doesn’t share everything with me. It’s not like we’re having an affair or anything.” Stephen Miller looked a little disappointed. “That would be kind of kinky,” she said, focusing on him. “I could be his humod sex ‘bot.”

He breathed a little laugh. She laughed, too, and lowered the zipper on her hooded athletic top. “I like you, Stephen. You strike me as the sort of man who isn’t afraid, who speaks truth to power. I think it’s cool that you’re interested in, um, physical things.”

He smirked. “What would you say if I told you I’d set this up from the beginning at the press conference, all just to get you alone with me?”

“I’d say that was pretty damn smart and sexy,” she replied, smiling. “Maybe I could be your humod sex ‘bot,” she said, standing up, undoing the hoody the rest of the way and pulling it off. She pivoted around, displaying her strong, well-sculpted upper body, which, together with snug jeans disappearing into stretchy slush boots, left very little to the imagination. “Would you like that?”

His look, and the growing lump in his crotch, said he would like that very much.

She placed herself facing the back of the couch, away from him, and flexed her knees, sinking, reaching around to the back seam of her jeans and slowly drawing a zipper down, down, under and around, opening them from back to front, and knelt down on the couch’s front. “Come on, come on,” she breathed. He got up from his chair, hands at his trouser buttons, and walked toward her. She pulled the jeans apart. She was wearing no panties. “Gimme some, Stephen. Show me you’re a man. Right now, do it—vamanos!”

She spread her hands, gripping the couch’s back, bowing, flexing her ass out to him, opening the jeans, showing her hot, wet bush. He came forward, touching her with his fingers, then entering her with his erection. She thrust into him, circling back and forward again, hanging on to the cushion frame tops as he penetrated her deeply, and again, and again, moaning. She took him delectably, squeezing perfectly to his rhythm, and he felt a few seconds of sheer bliss before he came, violently, as if it were torn out of him, again, and again, and lots more agains. No doorway sex he’d ever had had come anywhere near this. At last he staggered back, light-headed, as she turned and pulled her jeans up again, zuzzip, standing straight.

“Did you like that?” she asked, taking a step, and another step to him, as he put a hand on a chair back.

“Oooh, yeah, baby,” he whispered. “That was—awk!“ With two swift motions she took his head and snapped his neck. He sagged, she let him down onto the armchair. Then she took up her hoody and put it on, calmly placed her shoulder bag on the couch, unsnapping and folding it out into sections, which held a number of items in pockets and straps. From one pocket she drew a pair of rubber surgical gloves. She had, she estimated, about twenty minutes; more than adequate.


>< >< ><


All the City detectives not assigned to Transit Tunnel-related duties were gathered in Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones’ office, together with himself and Deputy Chief Justin Earle. Everyone could have sat on his desk, with room left for the com-unit, the coffee urn, and all their mugs. Jones began by acknowledging this. “It’s everyone else against the Tunnel perps, gentlemen. It’s us against the world right now.”

Harry Casarelli looked at Jack Crowley. The two of them looked at a third, slumped in a corner chair, who had recalled from medical leave, a dour-faced DI named Soderstrom whose principal job assignment, it was joked, was to keep the rest of HQ from getting too cheerful. The three of them looked at Jones and Earle.

“First up, Harry,” said Jones. “You just got back. What’s the latest on Councilor Anderson?”

“Forensics only just pulled a team away from the Tunnel, so we’re far from knowing everything yet. Fits the harbor killer’s MO in every way except that he’s not an immigrant woman, obviously. Found at first light down by Pier 66, time of death, roughly late last night.”

“Any possibility it’s a copycat?” asked the chief.

Casarelli touched a remote, and several photos displayed on the wall. “His style’s hard to imitate precisely, but from what I’ve seen of the other bodies, it’s him alright. Whatever he uses to pull the viscera out through his female victims’ vaginal opening, looks like it was used here on the rectum, with pretty much the same effect.”

“Thanks, we get it,” said Earle, looking out the window quickly.

“Why, that’s the question,” continued the New Yorker. “Up ‘til now he’s been doing women, probably for the same reason they all do. Anderson, it’s only a guess, but as a Councilor, maybe it’s a message that even people in power aren’t safe. Remember, he was also the top legal officer, the Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. That would be icing on the cake for someone like this. He is not afraid. He’s been getting away with murder, lots of murder, and he doesn’t feel worried that’s gonna stop.”

“Soderstrom?” asked Jones. “I know you just came on the Chelly case.”

Soderstrom pushed himself up a little in his seat. “We hef video, you hef all seen by now. Analysis shows similarities to tunnel perp, efery detail except for the mechanical, ha, apparaitus. He is not Bearer, but he has made hisself one, symbolically, with the apparaitus. Inchuries sustained by his wictim are consistent wis those of harbor killer wictims. It is logical to conclude he is the harbor killer, and thet he perpetrated the Anderson killing later lest night efter the Chelly killing.”

“So,” said Earle, “the Harbor Killer struck twice last night, Anderson and at Chelly. Both were atypical. One was a male, and the other was not dumped in the harbor.”

“But he hed assistance, very competent assistance, es tunnel killer did,” said Soderstrom. “We may infer that the tunnel killer and the harbor killer are related, but not the same person.”

“One case, really. Two perps, related somehow. Same basic equipment,” said Crowley, as Earle wrote notes and drew arrows on a holoboard he’d activated.

“And what equipment,” said Harry. “The suits themselves are years ahead of anything we have. Not only relatively light and maneuverable, but to all appearances cybernetically interactive, uplinked to a master assist, with full commo, and proof against any projectile up to a fifty-cal armor-piercing round. Probably self-repairing for minor damage. Pimchuk over at SWAT said he’d give his left nut for a couple of those. And that’s not even touching the org and info aspects. Soderstrom’s right, they have professional-grade assistance, lots of it. They plan down to the nines, with, it seems, full advance knowledge of what they’re up against. Don’t forget, the tunnel killer commandeered a police vehicle quite easily, knew exactly how it worked, and had a dozen pre-stored caches to reload from, squirreled away in exactly the right places. Someone, somehow, closed the blast doors all along the line so that no one could get away. He knew just what the police teams were going to throw at him, and what their weaknesses were. He knew how to get out, which access shafts to take--the fastenings were probably pre-removed for him--and a goddamn hover waiting for him to waft him away. A lot of that knowledge is protected information. I hate the C-word as much as anyone else, but it’s obvious we are talking about a full-blown conspiracy here, and they have us so far outclassed it’s like science fiction. The only good news is that we’ve got enough bodies now that City Light can do away with brownouts ‘til spring.”

“Speaking of the similarities,” said Jones, “Forensics has DNA back from the Tunnel killer. He left semen behind for analysis.”

“Enough to be useful?” asked Crowley.

“About thirty-five hundred cc’s worth.”

“Jesus,” muttered Earle.

“Profile indicates black hair, dark eyes, Asian, probably Han Chinese, though it’s hard to tell without relative cross-checks. Has standard Bearer markers, obviously. Obesity doesn’t run in his family, he doesn’t suffer from any detectable diseases other than Bearer Syndrome. Not an alcoholic but seems to do speed. Doesn’t match anyone in the database, so must be a recent arrival to the country. Probably here on a tourist visa.”

“But we don’t have that data from any of the harbor killer victims, yeah?” asked Casarelli.

“No, nor Chelly either. Consistent again that they are two separate but related perps. Anyone else?”

“Well, another bit of good news,” Crowley put in. “Unlike Thursday and Friday, no evidence yet of any fuck-and-cuts.”

Jones put a finger to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Call them something else, will you, Detective?”

“Okay, um, screw-and-do’s? You won’t let me use the V-word.”

“Compromise,” said Jones. “SAD victims, how about that?”

“Works for me. Whatever you call ‘em, after four Thursday and four Friday, none last night. We’re still looking for Jael Schlick, alias Taylor Light. Had some vague ‘cam pics and sightings. Female, brownish hair, average height and weight, Caucasian, age anywhere from twenty to forty, wears a black leather swing coat, seems to carry no weapon but a very sharp little blade. Finds men on the street, gives ‘em a quickie, then cuts their throats and sucks their blood out. No DNA match yet, but tests haven’t been carried out. Forensics has been kind a’ busy lately, and the victims, besides being male, are all street people. Links to the Terrace Street incident.”

“Yes,” said Earle. “One Caucasian victim Four Asians, like the tunnel killer. Kind of a pattern—four a night, though last night’s didn’t have blood taken, right?”

“No,” said Crowley, “that’s four in addition to the five shot in the apartment.” Chief Jones fumbled in his pocket for a foil packet, tore it open, and downed a tablet with a cup of water as Crowley continued: “The Caucasian’s name is Bronislaw Skryplynzski, alias Lord Margoth, a musician. The Asians we don’t have names for yet, but they were Triads, to judge from their tattoos. The weapon that killed the Triads was recovered, a revolver. Has Mr. Skryplynzski’s prints on it as well as Ms. Schlick’s. Four weapons left slugs in Mr. Skryplynzski’s body. One was recovered, three were missing, probably collected either by the fifth attacker, who got away, or more likely by Ms. Schlick. We have a description of the fifth attacker, but it ain’t much. Caucasian, male, five-ten or so, medium build wore a long, dark coat.”

“A Caucasian working with Triads?” asked Jones. “That can’t be hard to run down.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Crowley. “No apparent links to the other cases so far, or to Belltown.”

“Yes, the one success, sort of,” said Jones. “Victim ID’d as Jenna Cavanas, wanted for the Belltown massacre. We got her, anyway. No other links. A PDA was recovered, but it was stolen and has nothing on it except one call to and from a burner which we can’t trace. We have her story, and I’m looking to close the book on that one. The City Hall bombing is out of our hands. An FBI team will be arriving tomorrow to look into that and related matters. Anything else for consideration, gentlemen?”

“North Fiftieth?” asked Crowley.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Crowley,” said Earle, “FBI as well, since one of theirs was killed. Medagenix and the rest of them are going to have to wait for someone who has time for them.”

Jones nodded. “Harry, keep on the Harbor Killer full-time, since we have ties to the tunnel killer. Soderstrom, work Chelly from your angle. Interviews, interviews. Jack, keep after Ms. Schlick through tomorrow, write up everything you can, prepare to put it on ice if she doesn’t reappear. Be ready to follow up on the Triads, though, and possible Triad links to the Harbor and Tunnel killers. Leave the rest to the Feds. You may wind up as their liaison officer.” Crowley, for a moment, made a face sourer than Soderstrom’s. “Let’s go.”


>< >< ><





>< >< ><

[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

075



After leaving Rhys’ campaign office, Holly was feeling a definite itch down south, having been without a man since yesterday. She thought about calling David, and just then her PDA buzzed. It was Janine Sandoval. She wanted to be able to speak freely, and Holly was nearby, so Janine invited her over, and within ten minutes Holly was being let in, as Baal barked from the back yard.

“You hardly need an alarm with him around,” remarked Holly, hanging her parka in the bungalow’s little entryway. Then she looked again at Janine’s clothes—a pair of old-fashioned pedal-pushers, wedge heels, and a cowl-neck sweater, which seemed unnecessary as the heating felt stifling already—and thought about making a crack about Halloween, but decided not to. “No, probably not,” Janine was saying, “but having an alarm system helps with insurance, and enhances the value.” Her hostess showed her around past the stairs and into the dining-room/parlor on one side, where a teapot and a bottle of wine sat on a low table. And an ashtray. Holly turned her head as if looking around, sniffing. There was definitely a scent of nick; there would be.

“I forgot to ask what you’d want,” said Janine, sitting down, touching a teacup and a wineglass.

“Tea, thanks. Just plain.” Janine poured, and Holly had a seat. “So, what did you want to ask me about? Is it something to do with John Brunett?” Janine nodded. “In fact, I just saw Rhys about it,” said Holly. “He asked me to keep an eye out, look around. He thinks John may still be on the island somewhere. I doubt it.”

“And?”

“This is serious. We have a lot—a hell of a lot—invested in him.”

“Him, and Jason, too. Jason was TA’ed in town yesterday.”

Holly nearly dropped her cup. “Rhys didn’t say a word about that! You’re obviously better informed than me, then.”

“And David was hurt in an accident at CDF drill yesterday. He’s in the hospital now, but they just kept him overnight for observation.”

“He’ll be all right, then?”

“Oh, yes. Just got a bit of a flesh wound, nothing serious.”

“You’re sure it was an accident? With John and Jason …“

“I’m sure. He’s okay, really.”

“H’m.” Holly sipped her tea. “Two abductions, of a sort. I know Jason went to the city periodically, for reasons of his own. I can picture someone capturing him there--but terrorism? What’s that about? And who on earth would want to snatch John, anyway? You know him. He’s not exactly low-maintenance. He’s certainly no terrorist.”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing. Jason was part of a, uh, going concern over there, run by Cindy Shanley, the development diva. She and a lot of her friends were put out of business by one of Jason’s girlfriends. They bagged her last night. That could be the terrorism connection. As for John, now that Cindy’s gone, maybe someone has thought of starting up another ring, with John as the attraction. One wouldn’t think he’s cut out for it, but then what’s he been doing at IC under Merilee’s direction?”

“Yes, but could he work with anyone other than Merilee? They’re a sort of a package deal.”

“No, maybe not, but maybe. He worked with you in HIR labs at school.”

“Yeah, but he knew me. Even then, it took a lot of patience.”

“Merilee wasn’t the only one running the show at IC.”

“You mean … Father O’Hanlon?”

“Mother Church has tentacles everywhere,” replied Janine knowingly. “Anything Craig knew, his superiors also knew. Their position on, hem, family matters isn’t very different from ours. Breeders to the bone, and damn proud of it. But there was a monkey wrench. A lawsuit was launched. Some people were going to sue the archdiocese over one of John’s progeny with birth defects.”

‘They can’t very well go forward if he’s disappeared,” mused Holly. “That would save them some money.”

“The plaintiffs are asking for two hundred million,” said Janine. “And it could have turned into a class action. That’s incentive, yeah?”

“Yeah. But out of school, how do you even get to John without going through Merilee?”

“Someone he knows, and knows well. Who’s that?”

“Someone from the island, from school or church. Outside of Merilee herself, and Kayleigh, that’s Father O’Hanlon, you, me, Vonda, and a few others.”

“Mona Stern, maybe?”

“Mona? Maybe. Have you talked to any of these people?”

“Everyone I can think of, except Mona. Mona doesn’t answer. She doesn’t return messages, and she left home yesterday.”

“So?”

“With bags, in a rented microbus, when she has a perfectly good car already?”

Holly frowned. “Mona? Working for the Catholic Church? Abducting a child? That’s simply bizarre. She’s a school psychologist—she’d lose her job! She’d be blacklisted--not to mention the jail time!”

“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” replied Janine. At that moment, in the silence, a soft but deep and powerful sound rattled the old house’s windows.

“What was that?” asked Holly.

Janine got up, went to the window, and moved a lace curtain aside with her finger. Baal, the dog, was barking furiously. Then Janine drew the curtain and pointed. A large, black cloud of smoke was rising up into the air over the top of the nearby tree and building line. “Isn’t that where the school is?”

Holly looked out, and her jaw dropped, thoughts of any afternoon rendezvous vanishing. “Holy shit!”

As sirens started to wail not too far away, Janine said, “I thought it was.”

Holly turned, shock gone, her face set and flushed. “What was that about somebody knowing something we don’t?”


>< >< ><


Thirty minutes later, a crowd had gathered as near Alder Island High School as the emergency services lines would permit. It had been a powerful explosion. The central building, which included the offices, cafeteria, main lounge, and several classrooms, including the tech center, was a twisted, burning wreck which had scattered rubble into the street. Five fire trucks were in position, trying to contain the flames away from the auditorium, athletic complex, and the other classroom wings; windows all around were shattered, and several vehicles in the parking lot had been damaged. Police SUVs and aid cars were also onsite, with officers deployed along the adjacent roads to divert traffic, and red and blue flashers were whirling as streams of suppressant mixture jetted from firefighters’ hoses.

Inside the line, though well away from the conflagration, Mayor Joy Hotchkiss was conferring with Chief Gepitulan, fire chief Rhodes Bramley, and Colonel Malcolm George.

“First, gentlemen: was this a bomb?” Joy asked the others. “I’ll take opinions from all of you.”

“Might be a gas explosion, but I doubt it,” said Bramley, his face mask pushed up. “I’ve seen those, and bomb damage too, in Milwaukee and Los Angeles. I’m speaking before we’ve properly investigated yet, but from the distribution pattern of the debris, and where the blast looks centered, in the lounge area. There’s no gas lines or storage under there. Likely center for that would have been the cafeteria.”

The little police chief nodded agreement, and Malcolm added, “Set bomb, not a truck or vehicle bomb. Did any security alarms go off?”

“No,” said Chief Gepitulan. “A bomb would have had to be set by someone who had access. The alarms didn’t sound. We haven’t reviewed the CCTV yet, but we’re getting it now.”

“Any danger of another bomb? They do that, to kill first responders,” said Joy.

“Can’t rule it out,” replied Bramley. “We’re distance containing now.”

“No, but it’s been—“ George checked his watch—“thirty-two minutes. Most likely would have been triggered already. Services have been onsite for over twenty minutes now. I called Centcom for a bomb team. Military. Should be here in a few. They’ll find out for sure.”

“Now, another biggie,” cautioned the mayor. “Anyone inside that we know of? Your people were first onsite, Rhodes.”

“Thank gods it’s a Sunday,” replied that man. “Closed up tight. We’ve seen no bodies, no one coming out. We have a few residents from there--” he pointed to a row of housing units—“being treated for flying glass and falling objects. No one inside the school at all, here’s hoping.”

“Here’s hoping,” repeated Joy quietly and fervently. “No one dead, let it be so. Obviously, we’ll have to close the school ‘til further notice and start class-alternative network education.”

“Chief,” said Malcolm to the policeman, “and Madam Mayor, and Chief Bramley, too, I think it’s appropriate to offer the services of the community defense force. We can help with cleanup and traffic control. We have trucks. We have uniforms that everyone on the island knows and trusts. An immediate, visible presence will help pull people together and boost morale, and it will keep my people busy, many of whom work in the school system. We need to keep spirits up.”

Bramley, hearing something in his earpiece, turned, but said over his shoulder, “We’ll talk,” and gave a thumbs-up. Gepitulan said, “Could be a good idea,” and looked at Mayor Joy, who looked serious for a moment. “Doesn’t that require the authorization of the County Executive, or the State Attorney General, or someone?”

“In peacetime, yes.”

“This is peacetime,” said the mayor. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it, Madam Mayor?” asked the officer. Joy’s serious look deepened. “Look at last week in the city, right over there,” he nodded toward the tall buildings visible across the water. “A major bombing. Massacres. A state of emergency declared. The Tunnel terrorists are still at large and struck again last night, three miles from the Tunnel. We’re three miles from the Tunnel here.”

“We had a forcible abduction last night, too,” added Chief Gepitulan.

“Did you think our turn was never gonna come?” queried Colonel George quietly.

Joy folded her hands behind her and looked at the ground. “If it’s not peacetime, then what are the activation guidelines?”

“You declare a city-wide emergency, which covers the island. I call a command meeting, and as a matter of form, we vote. I have no doubt that a motion would carry. You then authorize me to activate the CDF. We suit up, draw weapons if necessary. We operate strictly on the island. Your initial authorization is good for forty-eight hours or until you declare the emergency over, subject to countermanding authority from the proper County, State, or Federal officials. I am responsible to you for everything we do, and you are responsible to the State Attorney General, and to the Committee Chair for Law Enforcement at the County level.”

There was a sound of approaching helicopter engines. Joy looked up for a few seconds, her fine, cropped hair stirring in the breeze, then leveled her gaze; it was firm. “Gentlemen, we have a city-wide emergency on our hands. Chief Gepitulan, carry on. Colonel, call your meeting. I want a coordinated action plan from the two of you tonight. We will keep what is ours. This community is not going to be caught out again.”


>< >< ><





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At the warehouse offices of Fujian Shipping & Trading Co., three shredders were going, with one small, nervous-looking Chinese man darting back and forth, feeding them all from yanked-open filing cabinets. Aside, in the waiting corner, two men sat on vinyl-upholstered lounge chairs, and four men stood, all armed, two behind each. One of the sitting men was Bao Zhan in his usual slim, stylish suit, nothing out of place except a stray lock of hair that kept falling down over his face, attended by two black-clad Triads. The other, in slacks and an open-necked white shirt inside a beige trench coat, and several days’ sprout of beard peppering his jaw, was Enrique Cabrera. His men wore jeans, denim and leather vests, and had colorful bandannas wrapped around their brows.

Bao was saying: “I received your message, Mr—Senor—?”

“Subcomandante Atlahua,” said Enrique. “Block commander for the Aztlan Liberation Movement.”

The Chinese’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Surely, this person has seen you before?”

“Possibly. But I am called Atlahua, and I intend to settle scores with some of the whites around here, and to make sure that Mesoamerican natives get their rights around here. By law if possible, but by force if not.”

“What can this person do for you, At--Subcomandante?” Bao asked carefully. A shredder ran out of paper, and began to make a loud whir.

“I think it is a question of what we can do for each other,” replied the newly-minted fighter, gesturing toward Xue Guangyong, hurrying with another armload. “Your man over there, it looks like he has some business problems.”

“It happens from time to time. He got behind on the bills.”

“Well, we stand ready to cooperate with you against the Anglos. I hope you’ll consider it. We are serious. In fact, we’re about to liquidate a traitor.”

“One of yours?”

“One of ours, I’m sorry to say. A woman who works with one of the worst gringo bosses of them all, who has personally murdered our people for him.”

“A good female gun is hard to come by,” said Bao. “Have you considered turning her?”

“That is not possible in this case. You may have heard of her. Her name is Ralna Ochoa. She works for Rhys Macklin, but we’re not afraid of the bastard.”

“Rhys Macklin,” said Bao slowly. “Yes, he’s no friend of ours. He works very closely with Councilor Oscar Espinoza, did you know that?”

“I’ve heard.”

“Espinoza is completely in Macklin’s pocket. This person is given to understand that it is a woman in Macklin’s employ who killed Juan Espinoza, Oscar’s nephew, and Oscar did nothing whatsoever about this offense to his family. Is this the same person?”

“It is a disgrace,” said the Chicano.

“Well, he is one of yours, so the situation is yours to deal with,” said Bao. “If you are willing to stick to dealing with your people, we will not interfere. Can we expect a similar attitude from you?”

“Yes,” replied the other. “Does this mean you are leaving the Ochoa woman to us as well?”

“Unless you have a specific request for a favor, yes. We would consider such a request. I see no reason to exclude any possibility of cooperation. We have a traitor or two of our own.”

“A hit for a hit?” asked Atlahua. “As a token of good faith. Consider it.”

There was a crash as one of Xue’s file drawers, overextended, came off its runners and hit the floor. All four armed men turned, weapons half-drawn, as Xue stood still, mouthing some Mandarin upward to the rafters, and dove back into his work.

“We will look into a matter or two,” said Bao, rising. “This person would be honored to meet with you again tomorrow, at another place, to be arranged. Is that satisfactory?”

“Perfectly.” The two men arose simultaneously. The Latino extended a hand, and the Chinese took it briefly.

As the Mexicans left, one of Bao’s men said to him, in Mandarin: “Sir, you are surely not serious?”

“They are idiots, of course,” the boss replied. “But even idiots can occasionally make themselves useful.”


>< >< ><


Brionne had had enough of form-filling. The admission forms didn’t have a million questions, and her medical ID bracelet had supplied all of that information, but there was also the subsidy application, and a lot of surveys they asked for. She was long used to having to do surveys and jump through hoops to get free stuff, but it simply took time. She had gotten most of it done, she figured, so she saved her files and shut down her workstation and wandered out into the lounge.

She could tell right away that something was up. There were several people in the area, both guests and staff, but none were doing anything except looking at a monitor. She saw two armed police officers in the lobby. Whatever had happened wasn’t good news. She went over and joined them.

The place they were showing didn’t look familiar, but the presenter was saying: “… No known casualties as yet, nor any evidence of other explosives. Bomb disposal teams are onsite … “

“Where is that?” Brionne asked a staffer next to her.

“That’s here, Alder Island,” replied the other quietly, her eyes locked on the screen. “That’s the high school.” A fragment of an old song lyric came back to Brionne. “School’s blown to pieces, eh?”

“Yes, but no one hurt, thank God,” said the staffer, still watching.

There was a cam of a woman with cropped hair, standing at the site. “… emergency plan for class-alternative network education which we have prepared will now be put into effect. Again, we are asking the public to keep calm. We have no reason to believe any other action is imminent. Citizens may call my office, and a special site is being set up, to handle questions, and counseling will be available.”

The interviewer said: “Thank you, Mayor Joy Hotchkiss of Alder Island. Back to you, Natalie.”

The camera switched to an anchorwoman. “We have exclusive reaction and analysis from School Board Chairman and Fourth District Council candidate Dr. Rhys Macklin, who joins us by holophone from Alder Island, and Hosea Hesseltine of the Queen City Institute for Policy Studies, and Talia Daldalian, spokesperson for the County Committee for Law Enforcement, who are in our studio, thank you. First, to you, Doctor. With the sudden death of your campaign opponent, incumbent Nels Anderson, announced this morning, and now this incident at your city school, how does this affect your campaign—which some have called controversial--for Council?”

“I’m glad you asked that, Natalie,” said Rhys, appearing onscreen from his campaign office. “No group has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, and personally I can’t think of anyone who would want to bomb a school. Yet we have had several such attacks—the Transit Tunnel, the City Hall bombing, the Belltown massacre, and, just last night, the Chelly Center incident. My sympathies are with the victims and survivors of all these crimes, and their friends and families. These are serious matters, featuring deliberate terror attacks against unarmed citizens. The forces of law and order need to find these perpetrators and pursue justice vigorously. With the Belltown matter, they appear to have succeeded. But much more needs to be done. In tribute to my good friend and opponent Nels Anderson, I have ordered a cessation to campaign activities through Monday night, and we shall resume Tuesday with an updated approach that will reflect the changed state of matters.”

“What about that, Hosea?” asked the anchor, turning to the thin, bespectacled man sitting across from her. “Is that enough from the candidate?”

“Given someone with a normal background, I’d say yes,” replied the scholar. “I’d say as an advisor that Dr. Macklin needs to distance himself from these issues and stick to district matters more. I’m aware that a Councilor helps govern the County as a whole, but Dr. Macklin can hardly be unaware that he has character issues in his background, and that bad things have happened to people around him lately. Barely two weeks ago, Louise Skogsted, his personal assistant, committed suicide. Last week, his new personal assistant, Ralna Ochoa, was involved in a shooting incident in the lobby of Dr. Macklin’s building. Now his campaign opponent is dead, and—“

“Excuse me?” said a woman behind them loudly. Brionne turned. The speaker had a coat on, and a suitcase next to her. “I want to check out of here, now! I came a long way to get here, but I’m not up for staying in a bombing zone!” Two staff members broke away to escort her and her case to the main desk area. Brionne’s attention migrated back to the TV.

“Talia,” asked the anchor, “is there any sense of these incidents being connected, and if so, how?”

“We have to avoid the charges, being laid from so many quarters, that these incidents are all the work of right-wing terror organizations. In the case of the Belltown mass shooting, this appears not to be the case—Jenna Cavanas was a disgruntled university student who may have had issues about her education financing. Nels Anderson seems to have been connected with the foreign women who have been found on the waterfront. The County Annex incident was, we believe, a targeted attempt on someone with drug connections. As for the Tunnel and Chelly events, that, is of course, what we are devoting all our attention to, and I can’t comment on ongoing investigations other than that. The City Hall bombing is the one where such associations do seem warranted, but there, too, the investigation is not over yet. Briefly, your answer is, probably not all of them, but we have far to go yet. A Federal team is arriving in the morning to help delve into these matters further … ”

Brionne left, and flapped her way back up to her own area mini-lounge to make a call or two, maybe chill a while. On the way back, she noticed that the door of the room next to hers was standing open. Inside, a woman was laying on the bed. Brionne couldn’t help noticing that she looked older than the other guests she’d met—quite a bit older. She didn’t seem like someone who could be pregnant. Anyway, she thought with a shrug, and passed on to her own room. There wouldn’t be much noise coming through the door that connected her room with the new lady’s, she figured. That’d be good. She got her PDA and went back out to the e-lounge to try calling Marcus again.


>< >< ><


It had taken Ralna seventeen minutes at Stephen Miller’s to check for physical evidence of her visit, which had been minimal. The only recording device was a small unit hidden in a pile of synth-logs next to the fireplace, which she confiscated. The apartment was small and quickly gone over. She took two suitcases from his bedroom, put in the recorder, added his PDA and computer, a burner phone which she found secreted in the kitchen, and his wallet, with a selection of essential documents and ID’s. There was little paper to show what he had been about; he appeared to do his work online. He had been, she saw, an employee of the Queen City Code Compliance Office. To the suitcase she added a selection of clothing, and pocketed his key ring. One of the keys went to a Coda electric car parked in Miller’s space in back.

Having completed work in his apartment, she put on a pair of his jeans over hers, and donned one of his coats with a hood; the fit was reasonably close. Then she went out to the back, returned pulling a large, empty two-wheeled bin, which she left open next to the back door. She covered his body with two trash bags, picked it up, and without any trouble squatted down, got it over her shoulder, and, pushing upright with her powerful legs and back, carried it out and put it in the bin, which she wheeled out the rear gate, leaving it in the parking compartment next to the Coda. She returned for the suitcase, closing and locking the door; done there. Then, in the shelter of the parking space, she opened the passenger door of the car, transferred the body to the passenger seat, removing the bags; replaced the bin, threw the suitcase in the boot, and climbed in, started up, and backed the Coda out into the alley and drove away.

Later, when the police got around to investigating, they would find all the signs that Stephen Miller had decided to leave town hurriedly. A neighbor might give evidence that he had gone hurriedly, wearing a hooded coat, taking out a load of waste and a suitcase before decamping. But that would be another day. The waste pickups would have been done. The body would have since been left in a dumpster out in Madrona or Greenwood, with the Coda left a few blocks away where it would be quickly jacked and chopped. In the meantime, stopping the car near a park on Harvard Street, and having stripped Miller’s clothes from off her own, Ralna took out a PDA she had brought, and made a call.

“Hello? Doctor Norrebo? UP Montlake Clinic, fertility program? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you at home, but there’s been an alteration in tomorrow’s schedule. The operation for Hayley Wooten has been cancelled. Who am I? I am the woman who will be taking her place … yes … yes … you’re going to do it anyway, because if you don’t, something very bad will happen. No, this is not a prank call … If you notify the police, or anyone, and I mean anyone, I will know, and I will immediately destroy the clinic and everyone in it. If anyone leaves the clinic between now and then, I will know, and I will immediately destroy it and them … I can destroy it now with the touch of a button. I have ‘cams set up on all sides. If anything happens to any of the ‘cams, I will immediately destroy the clinic and everyone in it … Yes, you are ready to do this. All you have to do is not change anything you were going to do … You are prepared for an operation. It will simply be me instead of her … yes … no. If I die on the table, that is my business … I am not insane. You are insane unless you simply do what you were going to do tomorrow anyway. As for no one leaving, you may say that you have received confidential notice from the police that there is an imminent terror threat, and everyone is asked to stay there for twenty-four hours … I have every confidence in your ability to be persuasive. They will be comfortable enough. There is food, and sleeping quarters, bathrooms, everything … whether or not I get away with this is my business. Your business is safeguarding your own life, your clinic, and the lives of those in it. It’s easy. Simply do what you were going to do anyway. How you explain things to Hayley Wooten afterward is your affair, if there is an afterward, which there will not be unless you carry on. Do the operation, on me, and you will all be safe, and no one need ever know. You will know me; I will introduce myself when I arrive at eight. You will have one hour to prep. Remember, Doctor. Apart from the terror notice and no one leaving, not a word to anyone, and proceed until then precisely as you were. After that, it is over. Unless you deviate from anything I have told you, you will not hear from me again until we meet tomorrow. Thank you for your cooperation, from me and from everyone else who will live if you simply proceed. Goodbye.”

She ended the call, removed the PDA’s sim. She held the device in her fist a moment, concentrating, then, with a sudden squeeze, crushing it. She threw the pieces into a park trash can. The sim chip went down a nearby storm drain. Then Ralna got back in the car and drove away.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><

[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

076



When Enrique Cabrera, alias Subcomandante Atlahua, and his men had left, Bao Zhan checked his watch. He had four men onsite, two of which had been posted at the entrance during the meeting. Xue was supposed to have some of his own to help him, but none were in evidence, and the little manager seemed unduly obsessed about destroying all his records. This was Queen City; the police had much more immediate problems than piecing together a smuggling case out of a lot of invoices and inventory lists written in Chinese. He turned to Xue and told him: “You are wasting time, báichī. All the important matters have been tended to. You have ten minutes to finish. Kuài yīdiǎn!”

Xue, hurrying, snapped back: “Aiya! Help me, then, instead of letting your men stand around like a lot of sleepy pandas!”

“Ten minutes! Hu, Pan, Song, Jin! Do what he says, for ten minutes,” ordered Bao, irritated. “Then we leave.” The four men slung their weapons and, as Xue shot phrases at each of them, walked around the corner, past tall stacks of crates, toward the dirty loo by the corner foreman’s office to have a piss. That accomplished, he stepped out the door to have a cigarette.

He was standing on the concrete pavement between the warehouse wall and the dockside, smoking, with one foot on the grey, decaying beam that marked the edge, when he heard a commotion inside, shouts followed by the rattle of gunfire. It lasted only a few seconds; he spat out the butt, drew his pistol, and flattened himself against the wall.

Bao counted a hundred, and slowly and quietly inched his way back toward the freight door. Slowly, pistol cocked and ready, he moved his head to look around the edge. He felt, not saw, the laser targeter find his face, and he yanked back as the old wood frame ripped to splinters. He was hit, but he turned and in three steps was off the pier’s edge, diving, falling.

He had flung himself too far, too fast. The tide was partway out, and his face and hand met a barnacle-encrusted pile on the next dock, which was only a few feet away. He hit the cold, greasy water and went under.

He was caught on something. He didn’t know which way was up, in the freezing, filthy grey—there was dim light around—but his foot was caught on something, a ring from an old steel drum, perhaps, or a loop of sunken cable half-buried in the bottom muck.

He stayed put. It was counterintuitive, but none of his men had silencers. Someone—pros—had killed them all, and Xue, and they might well be after him, too. Whether it was the same crew who had hijacked Xue before, or someone else, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was Chairman Hong’s people, come to do some cleaning-up of a sloppy subsidiary. That was it, he felt instinctively. The Róngyù was tidying up and moving on. His team of cleaners was legendary. There were four of them. No one but the Chairman, it was said, knew anything about them, even what they looked like. Bao Zhan had no desire to find out, because nobody saw them and lived. His only hope was that the Chairman hadn’t ordered his head, because then they would comb heaven and earth for him, even if he was dead.

His lungs were bursting, and fiery pain seared his side and face where the salt water was getting into wounds. He tried to twist down and reach for his foot, but he was going numb. He did get hold of his heel and twisted it, one way and another, frantically, and he could no longer hold out. His lungs exploded, and everything went dark.


>< >< ><


Mona Stern, too, was feeling desperate. She looked around the little apartment where she and John Brunett had spent the last sixteen hours or so, and looked at him, curled up on the soaked, smelly mass of what had been a king-size bed. The heat was turned up full blast, and she was stifling, oozing perspiration even though she had nothing on but her bra, a chemise, and socks, and yet there he lay, done up in his long down coat, gloves, thigh-high sheepskin boots, and at the middle where they came together, his goddamned woman-killing bazooka of a cock, now done up inside its matching sheepskin restraint cover, hulking there, his body curled around the watermelon-sized mass. The plan called for her to keep him there at least twenty-four hours before contacting Noble, but she wasn’t going to make it. Pills had put the boy to sleep for a few hours here and there, and he spent time eating and drinking enough for four ordinary people. During those times she’d gulped painkillers and slumped in a lounge chair with a bag of ice cubes on her flaming pussy, or standing under a cold shower. But the rest of the time, to quiet him, to keep his crying and moaning from driving her insane, she’d had to have sex with him at least two dozen times, and each time it felt like being done by a sink pump; it was a miracle something hadn’t ruptured. Maybe the three saints whose blessed Catholic objects, he’d managed to tell her, were sewn into the lining of his genital restraint cover, were granting her this mercy. And she had a newfound respect for Merilee, who, it was put about, saw him through every night at home. No wonder she acted oddly. It was a wonder she was alive.

He stirred, and she winced. She heard a groan, ooooohh-ooooooooaaah, from the bed, and she knew what she’d see if she looked through the doorway: his thin, pale, long fingers grasping a ramrod-straight, dark-pink erection, pointing straight to the ceiling, as big around as a paper towel’s cardboard roll and half again as long.

She reached for her PDA and dialed Noble.

“You, already?!” the voice exclaimed in irritation. “It’s not time--stick to the schedule!”

“Then hurry it up! I can’t take it!” shot back Mona. “You hear that?!” She held the PDA up to catch John’s vocalizations. “He’s a Bearer! He’s fucking me to death! Two or three times an hour! He’s turning me into raw bloody hamburger!!”

“Listen—hang on—“ Noble was obviously moving to another area—“I thought you were fit! Can’t you handle it?”

“I’m out,” said Mona flatly. “I live for the cause. I’d die for the cause, but not like this. You’ve got to find me some help, now.”

“It isn’t—“

“Now, goddammit!” commanded Mona. “I’ll give you two hours, then I walk—excuse me, I crawl out of here and call 911. Don’t tell me that in that time you can’t come up with the name of a reliable sister who’s got a taste for youth and a cunt made of elephant hide. Where’s Victoria Johnson when you need her?”

There was a pause. “Alright, I’ll come up with something.”

“You’d better. Two hours,” said Mona. “I mean it. Starting now.” She ended the call and turned her weary, pain-wracked steps toward the bedroom.


>< >< ><


Just after the Alder Island ferry left Pier 52, Captain Sigurdsson got a message in the Number One wheelhouse. He sighed, then turned to the first mate and told her: “Ms. Lukazevski, after disembarkation, we’re mooring the boat. You know the routine. I’ll call the Island Depot to have Tawanis made ready.”

“But it’s—we don’t switch to the passenger-only run until the twenty-ten,” she said. “What’s the matter?”

“The school bombing.” She nodded; ferry personnel, by the nature of their job, were current on news. “And with an abduction, they’ve called a civil defense alert, level three. The Tawanis will run, and it will have the deck gun fitted. This is not a drill.”

“Deck gun--wait … ammunition?”

“Ms. Lukazevski, one does not show a weapon unless ready to use it. Ammunition is authorized. I will sign it out after we land. Activate the passenger advisories and alert the rest of the crew using security protocols.” He turned back to his window holoscreen and began moving information.

Down below, in the passenger lounges, the ‘vidscreens had been carrying a variety of news and talk. On one channel, a host was saying: “These right-wing, fascist breeder militia scum stop at nothing! It’s all a plot to scare you into even greater dependence on giant corporations! If they’ve blown up one of their own cribs, it just goes to show you how far-out they are! They’re killing themselves now, and it will only be a matter of time before they kill you, too! When everyone is dead, then corporations will rule the world!” On another, three panelists were arguing about what this meant for a woman’s right to healthcare. On a third, a state-wide editorialist was calling for Red and Blue Partiers alike to end the budget shutdown in Olympia, the capital, and open State agencies again. On a fourth, someone was blaming illegal immigrants, perhaps associated with the December Third Brigades, and on another, someone else was making the case that it could only be aliens from Planet Nibiru. All cut off, and were replaced by pre-recorded video—a few years old now--of a familiar-looking official seated at a desk, with State, national, and NAE flags behind him.

“Hello, I’m Leonard Chung, King County Executive, with a safety message,” he said mildly. “For the security of yourself and your fellow travelers, this vessel has been ordered to halt temporarily at its destination, in order to await instructions from public authorities. Please follow the directions of the captain and crew in disembarking, and, although we expect service to resume as soon as possible, you may wish to make arrangements as there may be a delay. Again, please listen to and follow all crew advisories and updates. These will be announced over the communication system following a special three-tone sound.” He waited, while three alternate-tone chimes sounded. “Remember, and please listen for the advisories from your captain. Thank you, and have a pleasant rest of your day.”


>< >< ><



On West Nickerson Street, near the Aurora Avenue bridge, there was a large old boat works building. From the outside, its rusting metal siding and boarded-up windows betrayed no sign of activity. Shadowy blackberry vines, occasionally moving in the wind, grew among heaps of junk in the yard, and a single yellow light glowed over the doorway; it was full night. Anyone going by would have seen nothing unusual. But in the last forty-eight hours now it had been admitting people through its side door, people showing up singly or in pairs, silent and dark. No one had left.

Inside, the cavernous space had been reworked; soundproofed, lightproofed, plumbed and electrified into a central hall, with conference rooms and other facilities along the sides. Vartan Iulianou, behind the reception desk by the door, studied a holodisplay with data on everyone who had arrived. There were four hundred fifty-nine names, two displayed in red, and the others mostly in light green, some in blue. This was the moment he had been awaiting. The four hundred fifty-seven greens and blues were Minions; whether all were actually here or not wasn’t crucial. The two in red were Vampires. With him they made three, a coven. He disliked the word, preferring the older chapter, but fashion--a force that even Vampires had to acknowledge—had prevailed. Call it what you would, together with the Minions, it made a Gathering, which could now begin.


>< >< ><


At 20:57 hours precisely, the lighting in the hall, already dim, dimmed further, and a tone sounded over the speakers, with a female voice: “Good evening and thank you for attending the Gathering. Please direct your attention to the north end, where there will be a brief introductory video, followed immediately by a personal welcome from your hosts.” At the far end of the central space, there was a multilayer video setup. Lights flickered, music whined, and next to Vartan, another of the Vampires, a tall man favoring the style of the nineteen-thirties, when he had been human, leaned over and said quietly in his ear: “’Gathering?’ Looks more like a perishing MLM sales convention for Goths.”

“I have many Minions, Neville,” replied Vartan. “We can’t meet in a residential basement somewhere.”

“Indeed,” remarked the other. “I think twelve is the upper limit sanctioned by tradition, is it not? But perhaps Moira might see things your way.”

The third Vampire, a female with tight braids, dressed in military-style fatigue bottoms and a vintage Deicide t-shirt, was new, hardly forty years fledged. Vartan had heard of her, but never seen her before; but, being young and yet domainless, she was progressive-minded and willing to travel at short notice. Neville was less so, but owed Vartan a favor over a long-ago matter concerning the wife of a United States senator. Moira said: “I don’t see why you shouldn’t have as many Minions as you can manage. But can you manage this many?”

“That is a good question. Another good question is, are they all mine?” The others traded a sharp glance. “I am Elder, far older than either of you; just as suspicious as any Elder, but more up-to-date. I keep electronic records, and I do not have nearly this many in them. A Gathering includes all Minions within a given area, no matter which Vampire issues the summons. The numbers are not adding up. One of the reasons for this Gathering is to determine who is whose.” He gestured toward the mini-holoscreen at the desk. “I suspect that the Minions of at least one other Vampire, perhaps more, have been arriving recently. Neither of you would know anything about that, would you?” Both shook their heads.

“Victims have been piling up sloppily--not the way my Minions do business--” continued Vartan severely, “and officials have launched an actual vampire investigation. You understand the implications. That is why I have gone high-tech with identification. The government IDs of all Minions, issued to them when human, here have been matched to my database. During the night, the mismatches will be interviewed personally by myself, or my senior Minion, Adela. Adela, meet Moira and Neville.” The big-boned, vinyl-sheathed African-American smiled at the others and made a small bow. “I have every confidence that Adela and I will have it out of every strange Minion before we’re done.”

“I’m sure,” said Moira, giving Adela the once-over, all six feet three of her with the heels. “I’d be happy to be, ah, had out of it with her when she’s done with the rest.” Neville turned and frowned at Moira so that Vartan wondered if she had stolen his line. At any rate, the presentation, having said something about the combination of mind contact and mundane means used to summon the Minions, and what a Gathering was—no Minion here had been to one before—was winding to a close. Vartan gave Neville and Moira their cues, and it was time for them to make their way toward the dais.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><


“Good evening, and again, thank you,” Vartan addressed the crowd, from a diffused spot ambience on the platform. “You all know me, I trust, so I will dispense with personal introductions. It has been long, over seventy years, since a Gathering in Queen City, which was then called Seattle, and I was not the host of it. As you now know, Gatherings are held when there is a special need. I’m glad that you attended, and I regret what will happen to any who did not. As Minions, you need to know and follow certain traditions if you are to survive. They are essential. The five traditions—or six, depending on how you divide the words--have ensured our existence on this planet for six thousand years. Gatherings review those traditions, and from time to time lay down new guidance acquired from those who know. Adherence to the Traditions and local ordinances is mandatory, lest our human prey acquire concrete knowledge of our existence and decide to organize against us. This is even more important since, in the last century or so, technology has given them powers which nearly approach our own. Humans are many, outnumbering us by a thousand to one, and they are not well-disposed to us as a rule. Hence, any Minion not in attendance tonight will be swiftly found and put to an end. As a symbol of the authority of the ordinances, I am joined by two other Vampires—“ here the ambient light expanded to include Neville and Moira—“and they have the force of the coven, meaning that every Vampire is also bound by agreement to them.” This last was not strictly true; only the Traditions were so enforced, but close enough; no one here could or would say different.

“Of the Traditions, only four apply directly to you as Minions: you shall not reveal yourself but to your siblings of the blood, other Minions or Vampires; you shall not destroy your siblings of the blood, except on the orders of an Elder; and, in a domain not of your own Elder’s, you shall reveal yourself to the local Elder. We wish to have a few words with each of you in person in order to assure ourselves that these Traditions are being followed. Then we shall have another call to order, and a few new ordinances will be laid down. Afterward you will be dismissed, with day accommodations onsite for such of you as may require. That is the agenda. Until the call to order, you may mingle freely. Become acquainted with your siblings of the blood, I encourage it. There will be activities in the conference rooms for those who wish to acquire wisdom in practical applications of the traditions, and one mandatory activity in Room A, a review of the 2042 Gathering’s ordinances, which are still in force, and attendance will be taken. It will take only a few minutes, and will be repeated until everyone has been. Limited refreshments will be available—“ here a brief, stifled scream betokened an insufficiently anaesthetized human—“available, on the south side. With everyone’s full cooperation, we will not have to do this for another seventy years.” There was a ragged cheer, with whistles, at this, and with a small bow Vartan left the dais, followed by the two other Vampires. Music came up, soft but with a deep, forceful beat, and holodisplay lights began to play, forming subtle displays.


>< >< ><


By two AM, Vartan and Adela had identified no fewer than one hundred seventy-three Minions present that were not of Vartan’s making, leaving two hundred eighty-four matches. It had not escaped the elder that Jael, alias Taylor, had not checked in. Either she had resisted the summons, or, as a full-fledged—if self-generated—Vampire, she was immune to it.

“So, with admirable discretion, you have sleuthed them out, without spooking anyone. What are you going to do with them?” asked Moira, as she, Neville, and Vartan took seats in the small but stylish executive office.

“They have all breached Tradition,” pointed out Neville. “Have they not?”

“Possibly, but not if they were made here,” said Vartan. “Remember, their human IDs show where they were from before their bloodings, and almost all are from this area. We selected some for short interviews. Stories vary in detail, but are almost all alike in substance. Someone, they know not who, blooded them and deserted them. If any have breached Tradition, they never knew so.”

“Disgraceful,” spat Moira, while Neville shook his head.

“They never saw their maker again, descriptions of whom vary,” said Vartan. “As do the circumstances, except that they were all taken suddenly. Many were street people, and keep that mode of existence. Homeless, wanderers by nature. You see the seriousness of the matter, I’m sure.”

“Another Vampire is active locally,” suggested Moira. “One with the ability to shift within humanoid shape, perhaps?”

“It is a very rare power, but possible.”

“And, if so, operating in violation of the traditions,” added Neville.

“That means a blood hunt,” finished Vartan.

They all looked at each other. A blood hunt signaled a failure, a blow to the traditions; an omen that no matter how long-lived individuals might be, without strict adherence to the laws, extinction awaited them as a race. Blood hunts were always hazardous matters, risking revelations to humankind, and Vampires participated as a solemn obligation, not a recreation. Now, in a city full of angry, fearful humans, watchful for terrorism and armed with the latest weapons, security technology, and surveillance abilities, the mounting of a blood hunt would effectively be a revelation. If this were a Vampire making a move on Vartan’s domain--a Vampire absolutely, insanely ambitious and reckless--he or she could not have chosen better circumstances.


>< >< ><


A light clicked on in the guest bedroom. Vonda reached out of the circle it cast, into the shadow, and poked the mass of covers next to her. “Hey,” she breathed. “Hey, you awake, Rhys? You awake?”

“I am now,” came the big man’s voice. “What is it?”

“Ah can’t sleep,” she complained. “David, and Jason gone, and John, the school, ever’thing in the city. Now the CDF’s been called out, there’s a civil emergency, the ferry’s on restricted service. Ever’thing’s gone west, Rhys. It’s all upside down.”

“I know,” he said, turning over, onto his back.

“So how can you sleep with all that?” she demanded.

“Why shouldn’t I sleep? What good does it do if I don’t sleep?”

“Ah dunno,” she sighed. “Ah’m sorry, Rhys. Sorry for ever’thing. Sorry ah asked to spend the night, sorry ah woke you. Sorry ah came here at all. Candee’s coming home.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Well, later today, technically.”

“Doesn’t matter. Ah shouldn’t be here,” she fretted. “But goddammit, Rhys, you’re all ah got right now. Ah’m friggin’ pregnant, knocked up, Gary gone, Joe gone, Laney gone, my home, all gone, all Ah had was my job and they blew that up, too. My classroom was in the main building. Ah don’t even have David, not really. Not at all, actually. He’s got me—that is, he’s stuck with me for awhile, but not even last night or tonight. Ah went nuts layin’ there last night in his place alone. Ah had no right to be there, none. Ah couldn’t deal with it again. It ain’t about sex, you know that, Rhys. It’s about—well—everything.”

“I know. You don’t want to be alone. I get it, Vonda.”

“Thank you.” She put an arm over him. “Ah think it’s because you’re the sanest person Ah know, maybe the only one … no, you and Regina, but there’s something about her, too. And Ah certainly can’t get warm in bed next to her.”

“I understand, believe me.”

“How’d’ you do it, Rhys?”

“Do what?”

“Sleep!” she retorted mildly. “Your wife’s in that city tonight.”

“Candee’s safe enough.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What about Jason, your son? He’s in that city tonight, too. Who knows what’s happened to him?”

“Jason’s in custody. Nothing’s gonna happen to him. Some mix-up about one of his girlfriends. I’ll get it sorted out in the morning.”

“And there’s John Brunett. Aren’t you worried about him at all? Merilee’s practically beside herself. Thank god Jodenne Witonski’s over there keeping her company.”

“John’s another matter,” he admitted. “I don’t know who has him, but I’ve got my suspicions. Whoever they are, they’re keeping him safe, too. He’s fragile and valuable, and whoever it is knows that.”

“What makes you so sure? What if it’s crazies?”

“There’s nothing crazy about the way he was taken. It was planned down to the last detail, and the thing about planning is, it leaves a trail once you’ve discovered a piece of it. All the rest falls into place. He’s not far away, and he’s surely not happy, but he’s alive and well, and he’ll stay that way.”

“What about Nels Anderson? Your friend? You’re running against him, and they found him in the harbor. They haven’t said much, but you know what that means. Aren’t you worried they’ll find some way to make it stick to you?”

“No. Nels got himself caught up in some very dirty business, and it did him in. What happened to him is surely horrible, but there’s nothing I can do about it. He got himself into it, he knew the gamble, and wound up losing. That’s gambling for you. You lose eventually. That’s why I don’t do it.”

Vonda pushed herself over, rolled up, half onto him, and took his face in her hands. “Is there anything that’s on your mind?”

“I put a call in to Ralna earlier, and it went to a message, and she hasn’t returned it,” he said. “That is a little odd. But I did explicitly give her time off work, so I suppose she’s not really bound to answer.”

“Rhys Macklin, are you telling me that the world’s going to hell in a handbasket, and all you’re worried about is that your PA isn’t picking up your calls on her day off?”

“That, and I’ve lost a remote control and I can’t find it.”

She bent down and gave him a resounding kiss on the forehead. “Goddamn, Rhys, I wish I was you.”

“Failing that, you could do something for me that only you can do.”

“What’s that?” she asked with a smile.

“Turn off the light, will you?”


>< >< ><



Moira and Neville, still in Vartan’s office, looked at him. He had, apparently, struck two Vampires speechless, a feat even for him.

At last, she turned her eyes toward Neville. “Am I,” she asked dryly, “allowed to tell an Elder to his face that he’s gone scatty?”

“Tut,” chided Neville. “Respect. But it’s true, Vartan. You have gone scatty.”

“Have I?” Vartan returned.

“You will never get away with this,” Neville said. “I’d be justified in calling a blood hunt on you.”

“I am your elder,” Vartan reminded him mildly, but that spurred the other; his face hardened. “Do you dare cite one Tradition to me when you calmly and deliberately propose to break them all?”

“We are facing the greatest threat since Dea Tacita,” said Vartan. “It took every Vampire in the world, with human help, to bring her down, and even now it’s not certain that we succeeded. If this goes unchecked, the city will be destroyed, and the plague will spread everywhere entirely. And it will be the all-out war we have striven to avoid since the beginning, that the Traditions exist to avert, and which, perhaps for the first time, we would have no hope of winning. If it requires the breaking of Tradition in one place to save Tradition everywhere else; if it requires the sacrifice of some—myself included—to prevent it, then that is worth it.”

“You would only be delaying it.”

“We have been delaying it for six thousand years. That is an impressive record. But nothing, including the earth itself, is immune to time. Our existence as individual Vampires is merely delay on a grand scale. It is indefinite, but indefinite is not the same as eternal. To my point: this city is being destroyed by the humans anyway. It will become rubble, no matter what. But the day after, something will still own the rubble, something will be the last standing, and whatever it is, it cannot be this. I will not allow it. My plan takes advantage of the fact that we have one hundred seventy three masterless Minions, made willy-nilly and fatally ignorant of Tradition and ordinances. Something must be done with them. By Tradition they may obey only their own maker, but they do not know that. We can command them. The events will happen in an area already stricken by violence and destruction of human origin, and daily getting worse. Until transformation, the Minion condition is classifiable as a human mental disease, and any revealed Minions can and will be written off as drug-crazed or sick psychotics when, as they will, US and NAE security forces quarantine the area. While some will suspect the truth, the facts will be obscured. Human experts will create an industry of arguing about it, just as they have about UFOs, ghosts, conspiracies, and vampirism itself, and, over time, I, you, or other hunting Vampires can go about removing the evidence. And there are precedents.”

“Where? When?” asked Moira.

“Central America. Twelve hundred years ago an entire human civilization fell nearly overnight. Humans have debated the causes ever since they discovered the Mayan ruins. In fact, rogue Vampires had abandoned the Traditions, and, with their progeny, suffered the consequences. Between the years 1275 and 1300, an uncontrolled situation in the Southwest devastated the Anasazi, whose very name reminds us of undead. On a smaller scale, the presence of a single rogue Vampire was enough to bring an end to the human Roanoke colony in present-day North Carolina in 1588. Only the humans that timely betook themselves to the surrounding natives and joined with them survived. The rest, with the Minions, perished, and the Vampire, after a hundred-odd years’ search, was traced to Salem, Massachusetts, and destroyed, though the resulting panic encompassed some eccentric innocents as well. In 1930 there was the Anjikuni incident in Canada, now blandly denied by the RCMP and the authorities, although it was well-known at the time. An outbreak of this sort seems to happen every few centuries, and if we are due for one now, is that not the pattern of history?”

“That puts a somewhat different light on the matter,” said Neville. “I had not realized all this.”

“I would love to cover it all up, airtight,” concluded Vartan, “but it is already too late. The humans with their ‘Net, data technology, and scientific advances make that impossible. The best we can do now is face the coming disaster, make an effort to pull it our way, and sow so much doubt that it will go into the records as forever uncertain. Because it is in breach of Tradition, although you are in my domain and I as an elder have the privilege to command, I do but ask you: with you, or without you?”

Neville and Moira both sat motionless for some moments. Moira, first to speak again, said: “I’m with you. I have no domain of my own yet. Running an extinction event strikes me as rather sexy.”

With a sidewise glance at her, Neville said: “I cannot. Both your rogue and you deserve a blood hunt, but you have convinced me of the inevitable result, so I will not speak of it. I will lend my presence to the rest of tonight’s events, to color them with the authority of the coven to the Minions, but that shall be the end of it. You will not see me again. I can promise that, but no more.”

“Fairly said,” replied Vartan. “I hoped for nothing more.”


>< >< ><


An hour later, the Minions had been called to order, and instructions given. Three task groups were created; two to remain in the city under Vartan’s command, and the third, an expeditionary force under Moira, to go south for another target. The living dead were to be loosed.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><

[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

077


Monday, 19 October



The buzzing of her PDA lifted Sarah DeJong from sleep in her West Seattle bedroom, where she had been dreaming something about Jason Macklin being a priest and offering her a silver dish, whose cover, lifted, revealed a swarm of centipedes. “Hello,” she mumbled, still not fully awake.

“Noble? came the voice. “This is—well, you know—with Star and John. Did you have any plans for today, because I’ve got to be at a meeting.”

“Victoria?” asked Sarah, getting up, now fully engaged. “Victoria Johnson? Is that you?”

“Well, duh,” said the other. “It’s been fun helping Mon—Star--with John Brunett, but she’s still pretty much under the weather. I think he needs some kind of medical attention or something. Both of ‘em, really. Did you have a plan?”

“Just a sec,” said Sarah, wrapping a robe around herself quickly and walking out of the room, into the hall area. “Now, let’s start from the beginning. I’m Sarah DeJong. You are Victoria Johnson, of the Queen City Civil Action Taskforce, as I recall. Who is Star, and who is John Brunett?”

“Um, John is that Bearer you had Star—Mona Stern—snatch off Alder Island and bring here last night. Is this some kind of security verification question? If it is, I don’t know much. Mona just called you last night and had you send me over here to help take care of him. He’s a handful for one woman, and I think she’s not really used to lots of sex.”

“I see. One more, ah, security verification question. Where are you right now?”

“Heights Apartments, Tenth and Madison, room five-o-four.”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “Yes, you passed fine. Wait a moment, will you?” she said grimly, walking back into the bedroom and shaking Tina’s form in the bed.

“Wghrrm?” responded Tina.

“Phone call for you, Noble,” said Sarah.

Tina shot upright. “What?”

“Thought as much,” said Sarah tartly, holding the phone away from Tina’s grabbing hands. “I’m sorry, Victoria, let’s get back on that in a few minutes, after we’ve had a strategy meeting,” she said, and ended the call.

“What? What are you doing with my PDA?” yelled the redhead.

“It’s not your PDA, it’s my PDA. Someone—Ms. Victoria Johnson—obviously hit the wrong speed-dial button. So, care to fill me in?”

“It’s my business, not yours,” said Tina defiantly, getting up and putting on a robe of her own.

‘It is my business when my partner conspires to abduct someone—a minor, I suspect--and bring him to my city. In the middle of an election, yet, and the worst week for terrorism ever. What the hell, Tina?”

“The idea was to get that fucking Nazi Rhys Macklin to stand down.”

“Might have worked a few days ago, until Macklin’s opponent was found dead, leaving Macklin the only person in the race, and he has Leonard’s favor. It’s all different now. Macklin is not the enemy any more. For the moment.”

“That why you took his son?” demanded Tina.

Bitch, thought Sarah, but replied: “That’s why I used my authority to get him away from someone in the County who was taking him, and I turned him over, legally, to a responsible party.”

“Who was ‘taking him?’”

“I don’t know, but someone with police connections, under Terrorism Act authority. That oughtta narrow it down.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with Macklin!” raged Tina. “He’s an oppressor of women!”

“Yes, but he’s not slaughtering them wholesale, which someone else is doing,” returned Sarah. “One battle at a time.”

“So you’re just gonna let him be elected?”

“What would you have me do? Force him out and let Leonard choose one of his cronies to fill the seat for another whole year?”

“Leonard couldn’t do any worse. Leonard is, at least, a friend to women. He’s got a proven track record. He stands foursquare behind women’s rights.”

“You want to let Leonard choose?” Sarah asked, scanning her message box.

“I think we can trust him.”

“Okay,” said Sarah, and turned the PDA to Tina, showing her a new message from Leonard Chung.

10 AM press conference. Appointing Macklin to District 4 seat. Wear pink, please. LC.

“Mona’s on her own,” said Sarah, snapping the device shut. “So are you, unless ‘Noble’ ceases to exist as of this moment.”


>< >< ><


Ralna had presented herself at the UPF Montlake Clinic dressed in athletic sweats and trainers, carrying her tote, punctually at eight AM. No police or security personnel were in evidence; she was able to change from biomorph in a convenient entryway nook, and was shown straight in to see the chair and lead doctor, Norrebo. She declined the offer of a seat in his office, standing erect, at parade rest; similar to her default posture when receiving Sir’s official communications.

“You are aware,” he said, “that this is near-certain suicide for you? Many tests are done to establish tissue compatibility, reaction to drugs used in the treatment, and other matters. Tests are done first of all to even gauge whether there is any chance that the procedure will work. We have nothing on you. We don’t even have your medical ID. I don’t know your blood type.”

“AB positive,” she replied.

“That’s lucky. Where is your medical ID? I will need information.”

“It’s with my doctor. You can ask me anything you need to know. I am fully conversant with all the information on it.”

“All right. Do you have an anticoagulant sensitivity?”

“No, but if I did, you could substitute argatroban for the standard heparin.”

He blinked. “You do know something after all. Unfortunately, that will not help if we need to ask while you are under anesthetic.”

“I won’t be under anesthetic.”

“You are aware, miss, that the procedure involves opening the abdomen and can last several hours, are you not?”

“I am. I have accessed your files and read everything you have written about it. That is why I can state that there will be no death, and that the procedure will succeed.”

“You will know, then, that post-op therapy is required, including several days’ in-patient care, and a regimen of medications after that.”

“I have planned for all that. And I will not require any anesthetic. I will remain fully conscious in order to provide any information you may require, in default of my coded medical information.”

“You obviously have no idea of the pain involved.”

She raised her left arm over her head, lowered the forearm to behind her neck, flexed her upper body backward, and slowly, deliberately, reached under and back around with her right arm, and with her right hand took her left, chest arched hard out. Then she gave a sudden, hard yank, producing a loud pop. She calmly turned around, all the way. “Dislocation,” she said evenly, leveling her glance into his own and keeping it there.

Then she stood upright and brought her forearm out to a right angle with her body. She rotated the arm, so that the hand faced out to the side, and gently, steadily brought it upward from the shoulder joint. Then she pivoted it up, up, so that it was nearly above her head, and the shoulder slipped back into place. “Relocation,” she said. Then she fell, face forward, arms straight out, into a pushup position, and did twenty pushups. Finally, she curled into a squat to a stand with one smooth motion and met his gaze again, her sharp blue eyes looking into his pale ones without a single tear. “Still doubt whether I can deal with pain?”

“I still think you are being most unwise,” said the surgeon. “But given this demonstration, and the assurance that my clinic will be destroyed if I do not comply, you have persuaded me. I repeat once more, any and all consequences are owned by you.”

“Thank you,” said Ralna, picking up her tote. “That will be satisfactory.”


>< >< ><


Holly decided to go to the CDF muster, sign in, pick up her gear, and get with the program. If nothing else, she thought, looking through her little black book, there should be a hookup or two in the offing, so, having completed her morning routine, she headed down to Camp Freedom. As early as she was, she had to park a quarter-mile down the road from HQ. Hastily-made signs pointed to various tents and outbuildings where processing was taking place. At the issue desk, after a wait in line, she came face to face with Janine Sandoval.

“Welcome,” Janine said with a smile. “I thought we’d see you today. Done with errands for Rhys, then?”

“Just looking out for myself now,” replied Holly.

“Care to join the staff? I think we’re gonna need a PT leader.”

“Full-time?” asked Holly.

“Full-time, for the duration. Network Education will be starting up, but I don’t think they’ll be wanting a coach. As assistant IT instructor, they’ve put me on here, so I’m double-dipping. Maybe triple-dipping, if you know what I mean. As PT leader, you can see who’s in shape,” Janine said with a wink. “I know she is,” she added, nodding toward Kirsten. “Got a bun in the oven, but with some, that just makes ‘em sexier.”

Holly gave a wry little smile. “Thanks.”

“Okay, see you around. You can pick up your stuff at the supply pavilion, Tell ‘em you’re staff and you’ll get a bump.”

“Okay,” said Holly. “See you around, eh?”

“Count on it,” Janine replied. “Next, please!”


>< >< ><





>< >< ><


Dr. Sven Norrebo’s last remaining questions had cleared when he saw what happened as his laser scalpel incised his patient’s skin; it was a very slow matter, much slower than it should have been, with a grey fusion running along the edges. His specialty was reconstructive medicine. In that specialty he had attended closed seminars devoted to reviewing some of the useful information retained from the old humod experiments, something was coming back to him. His patient had bioengineered skin. She was a humod. That explained her insistence that the normal operating room video be disabled, the secrecy, the threat tactics, the lack of medical ID, the pain toleration, and why she was even now watching him calmly via a ceiling mirror, with a pistol in her right hand, as he opened her abdomen. through three small incisions.

She was a humod, whose very existence was illegal in many places, and she wanted to be able to bear, which was illegal everywhere.

But as he examined her uterus through his microcam, and checked other things about her, he realized that she was much closer to human than any humod he had seen in his studies. Her vital signs were all within normal parameters; her muscle and organ groups were the same; he saw no hardware inside her, though something added about twenty kilos to the weight she should have been; metal-reinforced bone structure, he suspected, and perhaps engineered tendons, ligaments, and disks; surely enhanced cardio and pulmonary systems. He had nothing against humod in principle. He opposed the crude exploitation it had once meant, but this creature was nobody’s industrial slave. Hardly humod at all, really, from a physical standpoint, he thought to himself, unless perhaps one knew what lay inside the skull. Just like human, only with enhanced abilities. More human than human. An incredible piece of work—a work of love. And there was yet another surprise awaiting.

“Ahem,” he said to her, motioning for his single nurse to take a quick breather break. “I have news for you.”

“I am humod? I knew that, Doctor,” she replied.

“Of course. No, it’s not that. It’s that you don’t suffer from any natural sterility syndrome at all. The reason for your sterility is that your tubes are tied.”

“Pardon?”

“Your Fallopian tubes are tied off. Old school. That is why you are sterile. To restore you, it needs only that we remove the ties.”

“That must be wrong,” she said. “My medical file states quite distinctly that I am naturally sterile.”

“Then your file is incorrect,” he said. “Allow me to adjust my monitor to your mirror.” She assented, and he did, and she saw as he had said.

She thought. Had she been sterile already, there would have been no need to tie her tubes. It must be, then. It had seemed to her that the doctors in Dar-es-Salaam responsible for her biosynthetic transduction system had finished their work ahead of schedule and with fewer complications than anticipated. This would partly explain why.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Untie the tubes, and that will be satisfactory.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “I really was not looking forward to doing the implantations and restructuring with only one assistant. We should be finished in a half-hour, then. Ironically, your own doctor could probably have done this.”

Ralna was already processing that thought, along with the question of whether Sir knew of the misinformation. This was another matter to add to the appearance of her DNA in the Bayshore Hospital registry, a place she had never been. One day, she would have to find out, to get confirmation from Sir himself. She understood well that he had business of his own, that she was not privy to. That was one thing. This seemed like something else altogether.


>< >< ><


The press room at the County Administration Building complex was full, with not only local but North American and foreign agencies represented as well; several Belltown victims had been prominent Europeans, and one the wife of a Japanese opposition leader. Staff and security people surrounded the platform, and flashes went off as Leonard Chung from a corner door, followed by and Sarah DeJong, Chief Jones, and Sheriff Maldonado, and there was another man in a drab suit. All but Leonard took one of the seats under the flat presentation screen. The flashes were more for effect than anything else; modern cams did quite well in interior light, but Sulin, who did the arranging, knew that Leonard liked an old-school touch. The seal of the County Executive showed on the screen, indicating that Leonard had the floor; this would change for the others.

“Thank you,” said Leonard briefly, by way of calming the stir of their arrival. “I will make a brief statement, and then we will turn it over to your questions for a few minutes. We are, as you know, pursuing leads in a number of criminal cases from last week. I’m glad to say that the Belltown incident is headed for a resolution, thanks to the Queen City police officers who caught Jenna Cavanas on Friday night. Unfortunately, Ms. Cavanas offered armed resistance and was killed by the officers at the scene, four of whom have died from injuries sustained in the course of duty.

“Our investigations into the Transit Tunnel and Chelly Center incidents are ongoing, as well as the City Hall attack. To assist with them, I have welcomed, and wish to introduce to you, Agent Austin Hudson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Here the new man in the suit stood up and smiled; he was tall, clean-shaven, around forty, his hair streaked with premature silver. “Agent Hudson will be leading the Federal law-enforcement component, and will discuss those aspects so far as circumstances permit.

“Finally, as you know, we mourn the passing of one of our own Councilors, Fourth District representative Nels Anderson, for many years our Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. With an election so close, and with Nels’ sole challenger being a person well-qualified to take over his urgent duties, the decision was taken to appoint Dr. Rhys Macklin to his Council seat and his committee duties.” A buzz sprang up at Rhys’s name, which Leonard had to elevate his voice a notch to overcome. “Dr. Macklin was notified only this morning, at his home on Alder Island, and joins us via uplink.” The screen’s logo morphed into a good, hi-res feed of Rhys at his home office desk, looking clean and efficient, dark wood meeting light carpet, and a picture-window view of the City across the water behind him. “Thank you, Mr. Executive,” he said. “As a consultant to the Queen City Police I already have a working relationship with local law enforcement, and I look forward to the challenge of providing leadership and accountability, together with supporting all police efforts, as well as fairly and conscientiously representing my friends and neighbors in the Fourth District.”

“Councilor Macklin will remain available for question time, I believe,” said Leonard, with a glance upward. Rhys gave a slight nod and smile, and the screen split to show Rhys alongside the County Executive seal. “That concludes my remarks for now. Madame Manager?”

Sarah DeJong stood, in her rose-pink suit, and said: “I just wish to add that my office is ensuring full coordination with County efforts, and will cooperate fully with Agent Hudson and the FBI team. I wish to add appreciation to the work of our City Police officers, and to add my own congratulations to Councilor Macklin, and I think some appreciation for him and for your decision, Mr. Executive, is in order.” She led a few seconds’ round of applause, which Rhys, onscreen, acknowledged with another nod and smile, and Sarah resumed her seat.

“I’ll open the floor to questions now,” said Leonard. “Yes?”

“To Doc—Councilor Macklin, are you continuing your campaign now that you’ve been appointed?”

“As I indicated on local news yesterday morning, we are dialing down the campaign activities. It’s too late to be officially removed from the ballot, and an aspiring politician is hardly going to go live, ever, and advise people not to vote for him.” There were a few smothered laughs. “If elected, I will go on to serve the term I was elected to. If not, then we have something to sort out. But all my own focus, now, is on my job, for however long that lasts.”

“Over there,” pointed Leonard.

“Mr. Chung, given that there are allegations of gang activity involved, what will be the lead agency on the Terrace Street case?” asked one reporter. Leonard looked at Sarah, who answered: “That will be handled by local law enforcement until the extent of gang involvement is better known.”

“Yes, there,” said Leonard.

“To Chief Jones. Can you tell us anything more at present about the Belltown case? Who was Jenna Cavanas? Is there evidence of further involvement?”

“Ms. Cavanas,” replied that man, “was a failed college student and a deeply emotionally troubled woman, who was capable of committing the crime, and we have enough evidence, including video and witness testimony, to be assured that Ms. Cavanas did perpetrate that crime, and that she acted alone and unaided. We will continue to look into her contacts.”

“You, there,” said Leonard.

“Mr. Chung, how does the state of emergency square with the arrival of Federal assistance? Will you be directing their agenda?”

Leonard referred to Hudson, who said: “By agreement we will lead the Tunnel and Chelly incidents, and the City Hall bombing, since those are by definition terror cases, and will be enlisting the cooperation of local law enforcement. We will assume sole responsibility for investigating the murder of FBI Agent Nola MacLennon the Friday before last. We will also be cooperating on interstate aspects of other crimes, making Federal assistance available.”

“Thank you. Yes?” Leonard indicated.

“Sheriff Maldonado, and perhaps to Councilor Macklin as well. Are there any findings on the Alder Island school bombing yet?”

Mal answered: “At the moment, that incident is being investigated by the Alder Island Police Department, assisted by military bomb experts, who are reporting to us and will present their preliminary findings in due course. At the moment all we know is that it was a large bomb, professionally made, but for reasons yet unknown it was detonated on a Sunday, and killed no one. Findings will be referred as appropriate.”

“I may add that the local police department are very good,” said Rhys. “I have every confidence in Chief Arminio Gepitulan and Mayor Joy Hotchkiss to efficiently manage the situation.”

“In back, there,” said Leonard.

“Mr. Chung, what is the role of the State police in all this?”

“As you may know, the State government shutdown is into its seventh month. Thanks to emergency funding, certain elements continue to function, the most important of which for us is the State Police crime labs, where evidence is being analyzed. As far as officers on the ground go, we are anticipating that the next session of the Legislature, due after the elections, will finally be able to strike a limited budget deal to restore some of that. You there.”

“For Councilor Macklin, or anyone else. Any comment on the Victoria ferry stolen from its boatyard and taken to Olympia?”

“First I heard,” said Rhys. “How did they manage to get away with a ferry?”

“It was believed the engineers were taking it out for a pre-dawn test run on the completion of maintenance work.”

“Interesting. Sheriff Mal?” Mal responded: “That is a matter which has been referred to the Coast Guard. That’s all I can say, I’m afraid.”

“One more,” said Leonard. “Back there by the door.”

“For anyone. Do you really expect us to believe that the Tunnel killer worked alone? What about Chelly? What about the evidence that he was a humod—a mutant, a Bearer, a creature of right-wing military conspiracy?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Rhys responded: “If I may. I think I speak for us all when I say we don’t discuss conspiracies in public until we have a chain of solid evidence. Until then, there are plenty of other people out there who will be glad to say whatever they think will get them some attention.”

“Thank you, that will be all,” said Leonard, to an outbreak of murmuring among the journalists. He turned to look at the screen on the wall, but it had already changed, to show the County logo alone, and everyone rose.


>< >< ><


“There,” said Dr. Norrebo, laying the last plaster. “Done, I suppose, though I’m not familiar with the exact composition of your skin, so I can’t guarantee it will heal properly. Nurse,” he said, stripping off his gloves and walking over to the sink to wash his hands. The nurse collected the implements and began post-op recovery; not difficult in this instance. “I suppose your own doctor will know what to do.”

Ralna sat up. “So, I will commence a menstrual cycle.”

“Nothing to stop it,” said the doctor, washing. “As a caution, I’d say that it looks like you maintain a strenuous physical exercise regimen, which can adversely affect the cycle. But in your case … “ He shrugged. “Ordinarily, I’d say you’d have to wait a month or two, but with a system like yours, again, who knows? I have no idea what else has or hasn’t been done to you. You may feel some pain for a few days—or not. Take it easy for a bit, that’s all I can really recommend, perhaps some over-the-counter analgesic of whatever kind works for you. I—awk!”

Having come up behind him and broken his neck in two swift moves, Ralna turned, seized the collar of the nurse, who had just dropped a tray in surprise, took her left arm and twisted it around behind her, and jabbed her with two stiff fingers to the side of her neck. The woman collapsed, but the tray had made a potentially suspicious noise. She had, she knew, seconds; perhaps fifty or sixty. Windows popped open in her vision as she scanned in the nurse’s physical parameters and stripped off her scrubs, donning them herself. She swiftly knotted her hair and tucked it up under the plastic cap, then stood up, calmly, and, using her scan, biomorphed into a good replica of the nurse. The voice would be difficult, but luckily would not be very necessary.

She gathered her own effects up, clothes, pistol, and all, and shoved them into her tote. She dragged the bodies into a corner, then went out into the hall and pulled the fire alarm. A drawn-out electric squawk-drone began. In the lobby, the office manager came out, giving evacuation orders; the staff swung into action. Ralna hurried upstairs, brushing past several people, making a quick round of the halls on each side. On the last room facing the street, she saw nine staffers and four others, presumably patients, on the street; from what she remembered, this was approximately correct. She moved quickly to the other side, kicked out a window onto an old iron fire escape, and dropped to the ground, walking around, and giving a little wave to the office manager.

“Where’s Director Norrebo?” the woman called to her over the blatting of the alarm, audible outside as well. “Everyone’s out now but him!”

Ralna made a surprised face, gestured toward the back side where she had come from, and ran back, and kept running, out the other side and through the rear garden, where she leaped a picket fence. She withdrew a PDA from her back, punched in a speed-dial number, and ducked down as the entire back end of the old house erupted, WHOOMP, in a fiery explosion. As sirens approached down the road, she pulled a light, baggy jacket out of her bag, got rid of the nurse’s hair cap, and ripped off the scrub pants to expose her ordinary leggings. She stuffed the cap and the shredded pants into her bag, took a few moments to come out of biomorph under cover of the bushes, and then stood up, walked out the back way and down the street cutting past the garage on the other side.


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[Aedh]

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[Aedh]

080



“How do you like it?” Jane asked Jason, walking into the sitting room of the apartment as someone closed it behind her. She put down several shopping bags.

Jason shrugged. “I’d prefer if it had a view.” He looked around at the place where he had been brought the night before last. It was basically a large studio, with a separate bedroom and bathroom. There were no windows, but it had solar tubes, which let in some sunlight during the day. The walls were all of concrete block, painted a cheerful blue-gray with heavy, glossy enamel, with a couple of red and orange abstract paintings, and it had orange and brown shag carpeting throughout. There was decent quality furniture covered with avocado vinyl, some macramé hangings, and acoustic tile on the ceiling. All the doors were painted brown steel and very secure. He had a TV which got seventy-three channels, and a line telephone that connected to a desk outside somewhere, where he could talk to whoever was on duty. An elliptical training machine stood in a corner, and there was a bookshelf with a few paperbacks. If it had been a little smaller and had a computer, it would have been very like a Scandinavian prison cell. That it was a prison cell he had no doubt, even if his mother lived in an identical one next door, with a guard like he had, as she claimed. He didn’t know, because he hadn’t been out. He had kept up on the news from the TV: about Jenna, about the Alder Island school bombing, and everything else, in between time spent with Shamber and with several other women who claimed to be social workers, health workers, or service workers sent to tidy up or deliver food. There were a few clothes that fit him closely enough in the bedroom closet.

“A view would be nice. Wish I had one, too, but this is all the budget will stretch to,” Jane replied in her smoke-tasseled voice. “I did get you some more clothes.”

“Thanks. Have a seat, will you?” he invited.

“I’m rather busy—“

“Yes, so busy you didn’t see me at all yesterday, dear mother,” he replied, taking two steps toward her and gesturing toward a chair. “Now, before this entirely amicable little weekend visitation wraps up, I’d like to do some catching up with you.”

“Alright.” Smoothing her grey skirt, she sat down in one of the vinyl armchairs, crossing her legs carefully, and he sat, too. “Here I am.”

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“What’s what?”

“This.” He gestured around. “I’m obviously not visiting your home. This isn’t anyone’s home. And what’s with the guards?”

“You asked for someone to keep an eye on you,” Jane reminded him. “That’s smart. It’s weird out there, and getting weirder by the day.”

“I didn’t ask to be locked in with no phone or ‘net,” he returned. “And what about leaving here tonight, after my forty-eight hours is up? If that’s even in your control or not.”

“There’s security concerns. We are both related to a Councilor now.”

“What? The election—“

“Turn it on to the local feed if you don’t believe me,” Jane invited. “Executive Chung just named your dad to the Council.”

“That means he’s Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. Which means what you’re doing had damn well better be legal.”

“Quite legal, as long as you’re formally in my custody.”

“So you and whoever you’re working with are gonna keep me here forever, is that it?”

“I can’t keep you that long. I don’t want to. I can keep you until you’re eighteen, and if your dad wants to sue me, he can. That’d be sweet,” she smiled sardonically.

“You can’t very well go ahead suing him for custody when you have me, can you?”

“Oh, there’s redress of neglect, and other matters as well, so I have it on good authority. Besides which, I’m familiar with the little arrangement you had with Cindy Shanley and her silent partners.”

“Funny that should be preying on your mind. Envious that you weren’t getting a piece? I suppose it’d be different if I sold myself for your profit, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course it would. I’m your mother. I bore you. Why shouldn’t I get something back? I certainly didn’t get any love or support from your dad.”

“It’s a business matter, then.”

“You seem accustomed to business. It’s certainly in your blood. Or are you going to tell me that you, a Bearer, aren’t a commodity? Bullshit. All Bearers are. They all capitalize on it. I’m just asking for six months’ worth. And it’s not just helping me, but the women we bring in, not rich bitches but just ordinary, good women who work for a living. Spread some joy among the common folk. Then you can go on your merry way, go be whatever your jet-set father wants.”

“You don’t think he’s looking for me right now?”

“I think that you’re not really very high on his agenda, as a Councilor with law enforcement responsibility, and Barbie Doll Number One on the Island and Barbie Doll Number Two in the city. He’s busy and happy, whatever happiness is for him. I heard he was gonna fly you out of town for awhile to keep you safe, so! As long as he’s persuaded that you’re safe, which you certainly are—more than on the island—then it’s good In a few months all this shit will have settled down, and you’ll go back to him, cap in hand. The cops won’t come looking for us. They’ve got more important things to do. If he sends someone after us, I’ll simply offer to drop any and all legal proceedings. He’ll take that.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

“You’ll come around.” She sat back, smiling. “Any other questions?”

“Any guesses as to who I called back at Sarah’s little digs?”

“Nope. None of my business, and if it becomes my business, I’ll take care of it.” She leaned forward, then stood up, looking down at him from five feet ten. “Christ, you’re a lot like him.”

“The less like you, the better,” he replied.

“Alright, I guess we’re done here,” observed Jane, went to the door, and knocked. He said after her: “All this isn’t yours. Since I’m incommunicado, you won’t mind telling me, just for my own happiness, who you’re in with?”

“At the moment, I do mind,” she said with a little smile. “Maybe later.” The door opened, and she was admitted out.


>< >< ><


With the morning’s political appearance over, Rhys loosened his tie, got up from his desk, and went out. The office he was leaving wasn’t the one in the press conference feed; his home office had been added by remote ‘cam layering, set up by himself, as his campaign location was really—well—quite modest, suited to an underdog candidate rather than a sitting official, which he now was. He descended the outside stairs, down to the ground floor, where there was a coffeehouse he favored. It was a Sully’s franchise, and they kept some real coffee, not ‘bux, behind the counter for the owners, who happened to be himself and Regina. He said hello to the clerk, and as he waited for his invariable double tall Americano, a pleasant, husky voice said: “Hello, Councilor. Hope I’m not embarrassingly early.”

He turned; behind him was Destiny Brigid, immaculately skirt-suited in red as always, with her black attaché case slung over her shoulder; nothing ever changed except her neckwear and stockings, to whose variations, it was said, major brokerage houses always had an analyst tasked. “Not at all, Des,” he replied with a smile. “What’s your poison?”

“Cappuccino, please,” she said to the clerk. Rhys nodded, and they waited until they both had their drinks, and retired to a corner table, where he seated her, then himself.

“So,” he asked, “when did you get here?”

“Yesterday afternoon, actually. I helio-ed over and spent the afternoon just driving around the island. I was interested to see how the community reacted to the school explosion, and to take in some of the scenery. I stayed the night at a B&B, and I have a tour of Brookwood booked for this afternoon.”

“Regina’s farm? You’ll like it, I suspect. Why the sudden interest?”

“It’s a nice place, if I felt like buying into a place outside the City.”

“Well, prices haven’t moved too much yet. I take it you want to go ahead with what we talked about?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

She patted her attaché. “You’ve finally talked with the Scrapple Computer people, then?”

“This morning. They will pass it on to their board, but they want an evaluation from you first.”

“They’ll get a good one. I’m still geeking out about Ralna. She’s incredible.”

“And only you and I still know. Without mentioning any names or identities, I’d like you to mention that you were impressed by my demo. They don’t have to know it involved a live person.”

“Can you rig a cybertronic demo for them if they ask?”

“Yes, the commercial version of Unimod was completed and tested some time ago.”

“Live, or cybertronic?”

“I have two versions, one suitable for either platform. But my practice is to take things one level higher before I sell. Have Generation Two ready before you put Generation One on the market. That way when it proves popular, and people are romancing it, you can hit them with more and better right away. Then you’ve got a marriage.”

She finished her cappuccino and put down the cup. “One of the things I’ve always found intriguing about you is how, to you, technology and human relationships are interchangeable things, like energy and matter in relativity theory.”

“They are. Your technology defines how you relate to other people, and to the whole world. And when it changes, so do your relationships—maybe not radically, but slightly. It’s the slight things in life that make most of the difference. When someone wants to improve their cooking, it’s much easier, and more profitable, to sell them a new skillet pan than to sell them a new range, or a whole new kitchen.”

“Interesting. Are you going to take this attitude into the Council?”

“Of course,” he smiled. “When Scrapple sign, as they will, because it’s a major breakthrough that will cost them practically nothing out of the box, you get back the money you loaned me with interest, as well as ten percent of Unimod Limited, which will be Scrapple’s contracted supplier.”

“Where will that be based?”

“Manila. That way we can avoid the U.S. and NAE anti-humod laws in R&D. It will be up to Scrapple to implement how they integrate it, but that’s up to them and Foxcom, or whatever hardware suppliers they’re dealing with. Just the news that they have Unimod and that it works will give them a major share price spike. You might do well to take my money and sink it all into Scrapple.”

“It seems to me you’re deeply out of pocket on all this.”

“I did a hell of a lot of the work myself, six years’ worth. Sweat equity, as they say, and I had enough to live on in the meantime.”

“Okay. With that, and the Essenia launch and the twenty percent you’re picking up on backing that, I almost feel like I’m taking you for a ride.”

“You could take me for a ride anytime, Des,” he said with a twinkle, and she slapped his hand. “Get outta here, Councilor!” she laughed. “Well, time to saddle up and head over to Regina’s, I suppose.”

“Alright. I have another holomeet,” he replied as she pushed back her chair and rose. “Tell you what, let’s get together when I hear back from Scrapple. Do lunch or something. I’ll send you all the gritty details.”

“Good, let’s do that,” she said, extending a hand, which he stood up and shook. “See you around, and good luck, Councilor.”

He said his farewell, watched her leave, and drained his coffee. He had a little time until his next and last holomeet for the day, time to check and perhaps return some messages. There were a few routine ones dealing with business and investments, a slew of congratulations and appearance requests, and one from Candee: Gratz Cllr! Home 2day, 12/later ferry. Pick up call first, else okay, yr busy. OK dinner sent in? Luv, C. That made him smile. As he was checking, another arrived, from VM Dixon. It read: Thanks for last night. Can’t say we’ll never meet again—it’s a small island--but not chez vous. I like you. I thought I loved you for about fifteen minutes, but I just like you. Hope that’s copasetic. To both messages he sent the same reply: OK. R.


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>< >< ><


Vonda, laying utterly spent in David’s bed in his apartment at the farm, didn’t get Rhys’ message right away. He lay with a big, tree-trunk-like arm around her, kissing her softly on the shoulder, face, and neck, and was still on a few days’ break from CDF activities. She knew that upon his release from the hospital he’d seen April, then gone to the health club and had whoever was there, then come back here and wrecked Shenandoah’s bedroom before finishing with her, Vonda, here, and in an hour he’d be on the prowl again; but that was life with a Bearer. That was why you didn’t stay, and they didn’t stay, because nothing but wreckage would come of it. But she didn’t know what else to do, at least until he was back in uniform again.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked.

He rolled over, onto his back on the sticky sheets, and ran his fingers through her perm. “I mean get outta here for a while. Off the island. Hit the road, do a road trip.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “Where? How long?”

“I dunno. As long as it takes.”

She rolled over to look at him. “David, you don’t strike me as the beat type. Do you know what’s going on out there?”

“Yeah. I know that it’s bad. Things are changing, I mean really changing. I want to get out there and drink in a little of it before it’s all gone and we’re shut in on an island that has the drawbridges pulled up. I wanna raise a little hell before it all comes down.”

Don’t you raise enough hell already? she thought, but said: “What about the army? You’re seven months away from that. I don’t think the Army smiles on recruits who raise hell.”

“I don’t care, Vonda Mae. In seven months we could both be dead. Who knows? I know I’m alive today—and so are you. I want to get away with you, do a little Bonnie and Clyde.”

“You can train with the CDF—“

He sat up, like a Michelangelo nude coming to life, and looked at her. “I’m going. If you don’t wanna go, I’ll go with someone else.”

She thought about who else David might turn to for companionship. Maturity didn’t figure high in the listings. They mostly seemed like nice girls, but as a teacher she was used to getting the nice side presented to her. Away from the island, there should be an older, cooler head who might be able to talk him down, to get him to see some consequences.

“All right,” she said. “All my stuff’s here already.”

He smiled, a really big, dazzling smile. “Attagirl, Vonda Mae.” Then his PDA buzzed; he picked it up and took the call.

“Hey … nothing. Yeah … cool, really? Okay … alright, yeah,” he said, and ended the call.

“What was that?”

He made a head shrug. “Mom has a big wheel visitor coming, soon, in about an hour, in fact. Destiny Brigid—heard of her?—wants the ten-cent tour, and mom wants me to tag along.”

Vonda had heard of Destiny Brigid. “You and the CEO of Insta-Bang?” she asked.

“Just for show, I think. I’ve heard Ms. Brigid swings the other way.”

Life with a Bearer … “Sure,” she said. “I’ll clean up here, it’ll give me somethin’ to do.” The painkillers should be kicking in about then.

He lay back down and wrapped his arms around her again, just resting, with his flaccid member coiled against her belly like a drowsy python, stirring in its dreams.


>< >< ><


Sitting at lunch in the Camp Freedom mess, Holly was thinking about the talks she’d had with Bernd Behrens and Colonel George about PT schedules, and completing her intake, when she heard a familiar voice behind her: “This seat taken?”

“Not at all.” Holly shifted, and Janine set her tray down next to her. “Checked messages lately?”

“Not very. I just got out of conference.”

“I messaged you about what we talked about yesterday.”

“John?” asked Holly surprised.

“Yep. I thought I’d pass it on to you because I gather Rhys—er, the Councilor--wanted you to look into it. In a military environment you get used to doing things by channels.”

“Oh! Well, thanks.”

“Besides which, he might want to know how I came by the information. You’ve noticed that he and I don’t socialize a lot.”

“How did you get it? Just out of curiosity.”

“It was as easy as dialing Tina Clearwater.”

“Sarah DeJong’s partner? How do you know her?”

“We go back a ways. I just thought she might be able to steer me a little. Turned out she knows the whole shebang. For a minute I had suspected Tina of actually setting it up with Mona, because they’re in the quote-unquote cause together. Tina knows exactly where he is and who he’s with, and that’s Mona, and also Victoria Johnson, the ex-Party worker, who’s got some new gig with a City task force. You know Mona’s number, but she might not have her own PDA with her, but I sent you Victoria’s, too. I got it from Tina. She passes, she completes, you just have to run for the goal.”

“Okay, thanks, Janine. I guess I owe you a solid.”

“Damn right, missy, and don’t worry, I’ll collect. Now I’m gonna eat while it’s still warm,” Janine said. Holly was nearly done, so she took up her tray and headed for the dishwashing window.

Within ten minutes, Holly had called Mona, to no effect, and called Victoria Johnson. Victoria passed her to Mona, who sounded unwell, nervous, and keyed-up—the opposite of traditional Monahood, Holly thought.

“One billion dollars,” Mona had said. “To be arranged by Rhys Macklin, but with Janine Sandoval as the go-between. I won’t talk to Rhys.”

“Probably a good idea,” said Holly dryly.

“Zip it, Ilsa SS-Maiden,” retorted Mona. “After we hang up, I won’t talk to you either. I’ll send Janine details about transfer to an offshore account. When I get proof that’s been made, we’ll make arrangements for John to be returned.”

“What arrangements would those be?”

She didn’t get a reply; Mona ended the call. Holly called Rhys right away, but had to leave a message.


>< >< ><


Subcomandante Atlahua, with two of his men, had gone to check up on some business in a working-class bar-cum-casino in White Center. It was quiet but for the occasional clack and beep from a game waiting to be played, but the barman motioned to him. He went over, and the man leaned over and said in a low voice: “What do we pay you for, Subcomandante?”

“Security,” replied the gang officer.

The barman cast a glance around the dim room, with its garish posters and tacky electronic ad boards, and lowered his voice even more. “Well, hombre, I don’t feel very fuckin’ secure with those Triad goons takin’ over my back room. Maybe you oughtta do something about that.”

“Triads? How many? How long they been here?”

“About two hours, and three of ‘em. Funny thing is, they seem to be expecting you. Asked for you.”

“Me, eh?”

“You. By name. See what they want and get ‘em outta here, would you?”

Enrique Cabrera might have demurred, but his new identity as an Aztlan block commander was made of sterner stuff, so he nodded to his two soldiers, went around the side of the bar past a beaded curtain, down a short hallway, and turned left and went in.

Inside was a furnished lounge with upholstered chairs, tables with cloths, and carpet, where illegal games for high rollers took place in the evening. Seated in one of the chairs was Bao Zhan, his two men standing by. One was a Westerner.

“I thought you were gonna call me,” said the Mexican.

“Things have changed since our last meeting,” said Bao. “This person finds himself engaged in matters which require enhanced discretion for a time.”

“This anything to do with your friend’s business difficulties?” The fighter relaxed a little. “Friend of Leonard’s, was he?”

“He was,” said Bao. “You can surely see the implications.”

“Should I withdraw my offer of cooperation? Could you hold up your end?”

“Not at all, and yes. When one plans to remove a Councilor, one must move carefully.”

“Councilor?” breathed the Mexican. “You mean, Macklin?”

“No, not yet. Macklin and Ralna Ochoa are a pair of traitors to us. It is thanks to Macklin that this person’s erstwhile colleague is out of business. But neither of them yet. This Councilor is another, worse traitor.”

“Who is that?”

“Oscar Espinoza. It is the Councilor who really enabled all of this. It is Oscar’s influence which enabled Ralna Ochoa to escape justice for killing Juan Espinoza. It is Oscar, working with Diego Maldonado, who has been interfering with the nick cigarette traffic. It is Oscar who hung his fellow Councilor, Nels Anderson, out to dry. It is Oscar who has been the close associate of both Leonard Chung and Rhys Macklin. Leonard can be bought. Macklin could also be bought, if it were not necessary to visit justice upon him. But Oscar Espinoza cannot be bought. This trusted man of mine—“ Bao indicated the Westerner—“approached him, pretending to be a deserter from our cause, and Oscar could not be swayed. We cannot eliminate him, for if we did, his death would be spun in the media. He would become a Chicano saint and martyr, venerated by the very people he betrayed. His death would be injustice. It only shows as justice if he is brought to it by his own people. That would be you.”

Atlahua, the former Enrique Cabrera, thought. He thought of Oscar’s words, We're done. You're no family of mine. My brother had no son. If you ever come back I'll call building security and have you thrown out. He also thought about accepting a contract on his own uncle, estranged as he was, and what his new comrades in the movement might make of that.

“We do Ralna together. Then I do Oscar,” Atlahua offered.

“Before any joint effort is possible, we must have assurance that you are proficient,” said Bao.

The Mexican thought again. He had been a good businessman, if not a stellar criminal, and knew about rises and falls. He knew about yesterday’s warehouse killings. Bao himself must have been the only escapee; his talk smacked of bluff.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” He stiffened as a throwing knife thudded into his chest, and fell, weapon half-drawn. Gunfire erupted; one of his men fell. The other got off two shots--the standing Chinese staggered, but Bao Zhan drilled him through the forehead with a little automatic.

There was a moment’s silence. “You okay, boss?” asked Burt.

Bao rose from his chair and finished Enrique Cabrera-Atlahua with another single shot to the head. “Perfectly,” he said, and motioned toward his man, leaning against a game table. “Help him. I believe we have nothing more to detain us.” As Burt helped the other man out the rear door, the other flew open, the barman entering with a shotgun, and Bao, backing out, dropped him with another single bullet, and the door closed.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><

[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

081



Rhys’s final holomeet of the day began with a call to Muad Aziz. “Salaam aleikum,” he began, and, with “Aleikum salaam” from Aziz, went on in Arabic. “Hoping I find you well, brother and vizier, hast thou received my ‘mail regarding our brothers in Al-Malikhah?” There was a audio blip, indicating a momentary break for frequency shift, to avoid monitoring, and which would continue every nine seconds so long as the line was connected.

“I have, O brother and Councilor, and I have Commander Watiq standing by to receive his instruction, that the servants of God might strike the unbelievers as Allah’s lightning from the desert sky.”

“Insha’allah,” replied Rhys. “Thou mayest relay the connection, with many thanks, brother. Thy part is done, and Allah speed thy paths.”

“It is well, brother. Stand by.”

The new image that formed was of a man Rhys had last seen years ago and far away; the time had not treated him well, but he looked unbowed in spirit, and he was much closer now; in Burien, in fact, with his team of locally-recruited and trained volunteers. “Salaam aleikum,” he greeted Watiq.

”Al—aleikum salaam,” returned the man. “But—I am confused. Art thou not Rhys Macklin, friend of Islam and but lately appointed Councilor?”

“I am that man,” replied Rhys. “But look more closely, brother. Imagine the beard I do not now have. Think upon Operation Malikhah, which thou hast lately carried out upon my instruction, but imperfectly, so that Hashim yet must redeem his louse-ridden hide, and Operation Khalifah, for which, I trust, thou hast completed preparation.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “Khan Qlirmys? Thou, oh malik, art also the person Rhys Macklin?”

“Thou requirest yet more proofs, oh sluggard?” asked Rhys quietly. “Who introduced this call, oh son of a flea upon the camel’s bottom?”

Watiq threw himself on his face. “This wretch did not disbelieve, oh my liege! It is his stupefaction at the wondrous subtility of the ways of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful!”

“Rise, it is well; see but that thou hast expelled all thy stupefaction in this moment, for thou shalt in sooth require thy wits about thee.”

“Command, oh my liege; Allah’s loyal solders await!”

“The moment hast arrived, oh emir—for emir thou now art, the part of Aziz is done, and I shall from this moment personally command thee. I trust all is in readiness? Thou hast received final documents and the detonator relays which Aziz hath left in the care of my friend on the Island?”

“Thy servant hath received all the necessities, and all is prepared, oh my liege! And the day?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Subhanallah!” breathed the dark man. “At last! We shall strike the enemy of the Faithful!”

“Indeed, you shall. And I have another question, oh emir. Knowest thou aught of a strike on Alder Island, on a school building?”

The man looked shocked. “Nought, oh my liege! We had no orders for such a thing, and besides, we have been keeping all in readiness for Operation Khalifah. Your troops hold fast to the true will of Allah. There is a pack of dogs which seeks thy life, I think. Thy servant hast heard vague rumors, nothing more.”

“Find out. More plans shall be on the way, and the means to finance them. I have other associates in the ‘ummah, to whom thou shalt shortly be introduced. In these dark days, the interests of all the people of God must be safeguarded against the insanity and rage of unbelievers. We must unite under a common banner, the banner of Allah, and quickly. Now, oh emir, thou knowest as much as is meet for thee. We shall speak again. Bismillah al-Rahman al-Raheem. Salaam aleikum.”

"Subhanallah wa bihamdihi. Aleikum salaam!” replied Watiq, and Rhys ended the call.


>< >< ><


As dim, grey October daylight subsided in the West, William H. Bates VII watched it through the view window from the desk in his Lake Washington study. Even the sun is powering down, he thought, and gave it his approval. He had, some time ago, come to the conclusion that humanity had bred itself out, and that the last task left to it was to vacate the stage for the next dominant species. His only doubt, until now, was discovering just what that species would be; a posthuman evolution, or nonhuman altogether. He was now satisfied that vampires—popularly so-called—would be that species. Only they, who alone could naturally command humans, and put them to work clearing up their own wreckage, while the managerial elite took their wages in sustainable human blood sources, keeping numbers under control.

He had received Vartan’s budget request. After review, it seemed reasonable, so, after a few necessary holomeets and signatures, he had transferred assets worth approximately four-and-a-half billion dollars to Vartan’s control. While the financing would take time to fully flow, Liam had no doubt that he had backed a winner. From his geostationary surveillance satellite, he could zoom in and see Vartan’s plans already engaging; a command group in Olympia, to seize control of the useless State apparatus, and other groups spreading out within the Queen City area. He had made his information channels available to Vartan for command purposes. His residential compound, thanks to measures originally installed by his wary, half-paranoid grandfather, was self-sufficient for weeks, perhaps months. Now he had only to issue instructions to his own personal security establishment. This would be a night not soon forgotten.


>< >< ><


Vartan, too, was active in his own residence. While most of his advanced equipment was in his office, he could gather data and execute plans from the underground, and had Liam’s direct feeds. He wore a mini-com earpiece and sleeve for contact with Moira and the ‘Expendables,’ as he had privately dubbed them, and kept up with the City Task Force and the City Fighting Groups by 2D audio-visual. The Task Force numbered many military and police veterans, and its first job was to take down communications—wireless towers, ‘net servers, and relays. They would not black out everything, but, if successful, they would shut down ninety percent of all e-traffic, and place critical demand on the rest. The City Fighting Groups were made up of less talented and promising Minions, and their task was simpler; to attack and kill people wherever the could find them. The strikes would begin close together, but the Fighting Groups had to strike first, so as to spread terror for a time while ‘Net and phone still functioned, and the Olympia EF last, after communications had already gone down. His own system, now patched through Liam’s personal satellite, was safe, better than his original plan, which had involved hijacking a Government vehicle. And he had contacted his Minions in the NSA, HSA, and the Pentagon. Plan Z, the release of certain rogue programs, into those agencies’ computer systems, was a go.

These served the deeper purpose, to flush out the other Vampire. It would, he was sure, either travel to Olympia to take control of its Minions—unless it had clandestinely gone there among them already--or initiate direct action against him here in the City. And there was, he felt certain, more than one other Vampire. Taylor had not attended the Gathering. That alone would make her simply a mutinous Minion; but he could not reach or sense her at all, mentally or any other way. She was either dead, and the woman slasher was a look-alike with a thing for blood, or she had self-regenerated; but she could not have blooded one hundred and seventy-three Minions in three nights. A few of the masterless Minions might be hers. As a self-regenerate, that would make sense; she had, simply, no idea of what to do with people she blooded. But as for the rest, something else was at work.

A message crackled; Number Six, a coordinator of the Fighting Groups. Moira had been bold and creative in getting her ‘Expendables’ to Olympia and setting up operations. It was sunset, and activity was beginning in the Shoreline and First Hill areas. It would, very soon, be time for him to move as well.

“Disable the blocking programs,” he told the fat man at the workplex, whose legs were shackled together and to the stem of his swivel chair, watched by Adela so closely that he could almost feel the heat from her tightly-vinyled breasts hovering like twin moons just above the back of his head.

“You’ll be open to monitoring now,” warned Mordred.

“They will have more urgent tasks at hand,” replied Vartan. Then he told Adela, “I will be going soon. See that our guest completes his task, then secure him and move to your own position. If he deviates in any way, tickle him.”

“Roger that,” Adela said, withdrawing a short but heavy-bladed knife from its hip sheath, testing its edge. It easily severed two strands of the fat man’s hair without him noticing. Then she bent down and cooed into his ear: “Ah luvs ta tickle.”


>< >< ><


It began, as these things often do, in an ordinary sort of place. In response to a panicky, garbled call from an Aldo supermarket on Westminster Way, Centcom dispatched two sheriff’s deputies. From the description of bloodstained people running down the aisles biting other people, it was assumed to be a staged event or zombie flash mob of some sort. When the deputies did not respond to calls, and more came in, describing people breaking windows, other cars were sent. The Shoreline Fire Department responded to an alarm in a nearby business. Then a call came from security at the nearby Seattle Golf Club; an awards dinner had been interrupted by—it seemed—drug-crazed maniacs bent on bloody murder and wreckage. A downtown hotel called in a similar incident; then an explosion at a power substation, another supermarket attack, and then power problems at Westlake Mall, followed by more violence, including gunshots. CCTV showed streaming video of people’s throats being torn out and bodies ripped open. Duty officials put in calls to Manager DeJong and to Leonard Chung.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><


At 1705, Chief Jones took a report from Justin Earle. Looting was breaking out. Hospitals and other vital facilities were alerted. Every available officer was pulled from other duties and armed, but soon all that the command could do was log the reports and promise assistance as soon as possible. Police stations started going offline: University, City South, Madrona, Wedgwood, Lake City. City Light reported power failures. “What the hell is it?” demanded Chief Jones demanded, slamming his hand down on his desk. He got only helpless looks from the others, and an exasperated sigh from Agent Austin Hudson, who was also present. “Where’s Executive Chung?” Justin Earle replied: “We can get as far as his executive PA, Sulin, and she says she’s trying herself. All she can say is, unavailable.”

“State Police Command?”

“We’ve tried to contact HQ in Olympia. The last we heard was that they were investigating the empty ferry, but now their system is down. We can call individuals. They’re working on putting something together. And they just lost all communications with Tukwila, Renton and Newcastle, even emergency channels.”

“Anderson--” began Jones.

“Macklin,” interrupted Jack Crowley. “Councilor Macklin is CCLE now. He can issue emergency directives in the absence of Executive Chung.”

“Get him on the line.”

Crowley held out his PDA. “Talk to him yourself, boss.”

“Can we route this through to the intranet?”

Crowley said into the device: “He wants you on holo, okay? I’ll try to transfer the call.” A moment later, Rhys’ holo-av sprang up on the chief’s deskset. “Hello? Is this thing on?” came the new Councilor’s voice.

“Yes, and no jokes, please,” said Jones. “Are you current on the situation?”

“Give me the latest,” said Rhys, and Jones described the state of affairs. “And you’re sure Leonard Chung can’t be reached?” Rhys asked.

“We’ve tried every way we can,” replied Jones.

“All right. I take it you’ve sent out every officer to the streets on patrol--? Good. In the absence of Executive Chung, on my authority, I’m calling a County-wide curfew. Ideally it would be now, but we have to give people in transit time to clear. Call it effective as of 1900 hours. Orders now for everyone to stay put, to include workers. Stay where you are is the rule. Civilians found going out, as of now, are to be reminded of the rule, but subject to detention and arrest at police discretion. Those already out have until 1900 to get inside somewhere, anywhere, and stay there until further notice. On my authority, you have the power to detain and arrest anyone who can’t account for themselves, and to take any measures you deem necessary to those who resist, up to an including deadly force. We would like to avoid adding to the bloodbath, of course.”

“Of course,” said Jones, to nods of agreement all around.

“Patrols will have to visit police stations which have lost contact. Priority goes to restoring and maintaining emergency services, by whatever means necessary, on my authority. On my authority, the emergency channels are to be activated, and protocols followed to issue public notices and information for citizens in real time, as available. You have detectives. I believe that Agent Hudson is there. Use them to find our number one missing person, Executive Chung. It is for him to confirm, alter, or cancel anything I have ordered, naturally, as he is Executive.”

“Are there any outbreaks on Alder Island?” put in Agent Hudson.

“No, Chief Gepitulan reports no violence here, not since the bombing yesterday. Whoever is behind this doesn’t seem to be concerned with the islands—yet, anyway.”

“What about calling out the National Guard?” asked Earle.

“That is for Executive Chung, on approval from Olympia, if anyone there is reachable. I’m not going to stretch my authority any further. You could already bounce a coin off it.”

“Okay, thanks, Councilor. When will you be in?”

“First thing in the morning, when you’ve had a chance to work with Sheriff Mal and the medical people, and we have some idea of the extent of things.”

“Thanks again,” said Jones, and Rhys ended the call.


>< >< ><


Reports were already hitting the media at the time Norman Boulanger’s PA, Hannah, tuned in; a careful woman, she always checked traffic conditions before choosing her route home. It was half-past, and in the inner office, the attorney was gathering his things.

“Mr. Boulanger,” she said, “Have you heard this?”

“It’ll have to wait, Hannah,” he said. “I’m off for the evening, and so are you.”

“Maybe not, Mr. Boulanger. I think you really need to see this.”

He came out, hatted and coated, i-brief in hand, She twirled the holoscreen to him. The official County emergency broadcast system had been activated, and a uniformed officer was speaking. “… all citizens to stay where you are. Do not leave your home or office for any reason. Lock all doors and windows. Special lines, and a secure website, are being set up for you to register your locations. We repeat, this is not a drill or practice. While events are not occurring in every neighborhood, many areas have been struck, and reports are still coming in. The precise extent is still unknown, but do not assume you are safe simply because you are in a location which seems quiet. This is a widespread, city and county-wide situation, with evidence of incidents as far away as Olympia, with action ongoing and casualties believe to be in the hundreds …”

“Nonsense,” said Norman. “This is some sort of hack, a viral prank.”

Hannah jumped to another site, and another. The same announcement kept playing. “It’s even on the official County ‘netsite,” she replied.

He turned and walked a few steps to the window, peering out into the gloom. “I don’t see anything going on,” he said, although, it seemed to Hannah, a little nervously. “…those in transit, in vehicles, bikes, or on foot, you are urged to seek shelter in the first available place that appears secure, and to remain there … ” the announcement went on.

There was a knock at the door. “Police,” came a voice. “Emergency block sweep. Anyone inside, open up.”

Norman, frowning, went to the door. “They said, keep the doors locked,” said Hannah anxiously.

“If it’s the police, we can find out what is really going on,” said Norman, unbolting the door and opening it. Outside stood a tall female officer uniformed in helmet, bulletproof vest, and weapon belt. “May I step in a moment, sir?”

“Of course.” Norman let her in. “Secure the door, sir,” she told him, and said something into her com-unit. “Mr. Boulanger, is it, and your assistant? Anyone else here?”

“No. What--?” He was interrupted by Hannah, as the officer pushed her helmet mask up. “I know you!” she burst out. “From the news. You’re that—Ralna--Macklin’s PA!”

Norman’s brows furrowed. “Ralna Ochoa? You’re an officer?” In reply, he saw a blurred movement, and a metal baton crushed the side of his skull. Before he had fallen, Ralna told Hannah: “Freeze.”

Hannah had had other thoughts, and had drawn a pistol. “Get away! I will use this!” she cried, trembling.

Ralna took one step over Norman’s body and threw her a level glance, swinging the baton around, in back and in front, and said: “Go ahead.” Hannah pulled the trigger once, twice, three times as the other took one more step, bringing the baton to Hannah’s head with a crunch.

One bullet had missed, one was taken by the vest, and one had grazed her upper arm. Ralna vaulted over the desk, landing on her feet next to Hannah’s body. She bent over the blood-spattered deskplex, taking in its functions in a glance, pulling off her gloves, and her fingers started to race over the keypad. Within a few minutes, a select few items had been uploaded visually, and the entire contents of Norman’s system had been devastated. Ralna left, tossing a grenade in behind her for good measure.

As she walked down the hall, the office’s door and windows blew out behind her, WHAROOM, belching fire and spraying a million glass and wood pieces. Stopping the police vehicle, she decided, had been a good tactical decision. She could drive home, and she had a trunk full of riot gear and other useful items, the better with which to effect Sir’s will, and her own.


>< >< ><


The news coming from the City did not affect Nurse Nita—now Anahita, RN, according to her new nameplate. She had spent Sunday getting settled in her new studio apartment, a very simple process, doing all her hire forms online, and looking around her new workplace. Today had been spent reviewing case files, of all forty-four guests of the Alder Island Family Health Center.

Of these, thirty-one had records of hypotension, either gestational or chronic, and nineteen were currently on medications for it. Lucky McCullum was one of these. She knew Lucky was her patient, and that she would be assigned others.

That her bioreactive phenokyluramine was effective, Anahita knew from her experience with Juan Espinoza. She had, intentionally, high-dosed him to see how quickly it could paralyze without undue notice being taken. But data were lacking on gradual dosage, how slowly it could work without the body’s defenses sloughing it off. She was now in a very good environment to do some more evaluation. Hypotensive conditions were common among pregnant women, and, as a specialty clinic environment, rather than a general hospital, lower-level monitoring would be the rule, as patients were usually younger, healthy women not suffering from life-threatening complaints. And there were prenatal lives, invaluable for testing purposes, very hard to come by elsewhere.

Tomorrow, her plan would go into effect.


>< >< ><


Vonda, during the afternoon, occupying herself with straightening up David’s place, had made up her mind, straightened it all out, for when he came back, hoping to convince him to postpone leaving for their road trip until the morning, at least. When he breezed in, near four PM, she opened her mouth to give him her speech, but he pre-empted her by saying: “Sorry to dash your hopes, Vonda Mae, but it’s off. We’re staying on the Island, for a while at least.”

“What brought that on?” she asked, giving him a hug, leaning her head against his chest.

“Destiny,” he said.

“I didn’t know you believed in destiny.” They walked over to the bed and he sat down on the edge; she stood between his legs, her arms on his shoulders.

“I mean Destiny Brigid,” he said, looking at her.

“She must be very good in bed to be able to do that,” she replied with a smile.

“It’s not that,” he said, laying back, as Vonda undid his belt and trousers, drawing them down off the mountainous mass inside. His genital restraint had been sloppily redone, she saw, and she began undoing straps, to put them back right—or whatever. “She made me see opportunities here, now. She said you were right, what you said.”

“You told her what I said?” asked Vonda, pulling a softpanel partly aside and watching his huge male organ rise of its own accord, slowly pushing aside the rest of the restraints. “I should be flattered.”

“Well, let’s just say, she persuaded me to show up at CDF tomorrow like I’m supposed to. I don’t think she’s left yet. She’s still talking with my mom.”

“Mm-h’mm,” murmured Vonda, watching the fleshy mass rise, more, higher, higher, more, feeling herself get wet.

“Are you listening to me?” he asked, taking his genital by its hairy base and whacking her on the breast with it. It was a little sticky and smelt of woman; he’d had one very recently. But he was a Bearer. But she wanted him anyway, damn the rest, just so he remembered her. “Yeahhmmm-hummm,” she said, sliding onto her knees, leaning in, and running the tip of her tongue up, up, and down, down, his shaft.

“Ohhhhh-ahhh …” he moaned. “It’s all about se-hexx with you, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” she said, and wrapped her mouth around his glans.


>< >< ><





>< >< ><

[Aedh]

>< >< ><

[Aedh]

082



Rhys had ended his call with Chief Jones, and looked up to see his wife, leaning with legs crossed against the frame of his office door. “So, back to me,” she said. “If you’re done saving the City for a few minutes, Councilor.”

“Okay, what about you?” he asked.

She pushed herself upright and walked toward him, her shirt-dress swishing, and halfway to his desk stopped, leaned forward, hands on knees, and looked at him levelly. “Good question, Rhys Macklin. What about me? Do you even remember where I was, or why?”

“You were at the UPF Montlake Clinic for an operation to make you fertile,” he said. “We talked on the phone. I supported the idea. There was no need to leave under another excuse.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, standing upright.

“We never talked about it. If you had told me, I would have made all the arrangements—“

“That’s just it,” Candee said, pacing around the room. “You would have made all the arrangements, just like you make all the arrangements for everything! Maybe I want to do my own arranging once in a while. No, I don’t do everything perfectly like you do, but I still like to own something once in a while, glitches, warts, and all.”

“That’s what this is about,” he said. “I get it.”

“You don’t get anything!” Candee said sharply, whirling around on her wedge heels, her back to the gloomy view window. “I heard more of you on the tube than in person! I was gone for a week! We talked once, on Thursday, and you had Vonda Hoffman over twice! Don’t deny it—I heard it from Jo Dunbar, who had it from Merilee, who heard it from Vonda herself.”

“She came over twice, which is not ‘having her over.’ Once to have dinner with you and me both, but you’d left suddenly that morning, and once last night because she was basically homeless due to a problem where she was staying.”

“Oh, that’s it? Funny, men usually trade in older women for younger ones. Were you that desperate?”

“Are you jealous because you think we had sex?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Well, if you’ve already decided what happened, it’s pointless to try to change your mind.”

“Goddammit!” Candee fumed. “Getting through to you is like punching a giant jelly blob! You’ll make a great politician, but you’re an impossible man sometimes, because all you do is blobber around! Stand up and answer! Did you have sex with Vonda, or didn’t you?”

“I have never lied to you, ever. You know that. And you know that if we did, I could afford to be honest about it. But the answer is no. Yes, she wound up being here all night, both times. Both times we slept in the same bed, in the guest room—“

“My guest room?” she demanded.

“—but didn’t have sex.”

“You slept with her in my guest room,” Candee repeated, “ but didn’t actually have sex? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m talking about the blue guest room, first up the stairs, not the white or green one. Is that the one you’re calling ‘yours?’ If it is, did we violate something? You did want to know.”

“Fuck you!” Candee stepped forward, took his coffee mug off the desk, and hurled it at a framed print; the glass shattered, and the heavy mug dropped to the floor with a bonk. “I spent a week in that city, for you! I lied to everyone, for you! I had my body cut open and messed with, for you! I escaped being bombed by about forty minutes, for you! Who the fuck do you think you are, Jesus or something? The world’s going to hell, I’m going to hell, and you just sail on calmly like nothing’s happening! What is your fucking problem?”

“What do you think my problem is?”

She fell onto her knees, leaning into his desk, heaving, sobbing. “I don’t know,” she blurted. “I don’t know.”

He got up, came around, and knelt next to her, putting his arms on her shoulders. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Shhh … it’s true I’ve never lied to you, but I also don’t tell you everything.”

“No shit,” she said brokenly.

“We’d have to try somatic cell transfer.”

She looked at him, tears dissolving her mascara, rolling down her cheeks. “What?”

“I can’t father children the usual way. But there are possibilities with science.”

Her face drained. “But … Jason and Zoey …”

“Things were different then. I became sterile some time around ten years ago. Something to do with my work. I can have sex alright, but I’m not fertile.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no no NO!” she cried. “All that for nothing??”

He slipped his arms down around her; with a convulsive movement, she tore them off and clawed her way upright, leaning back against the desk. He got up, too; Candee was glaring at him. “You fucking led me down the garden path, an hour before I went under the knife! Goddamn and blast you, you son of a bitch!!”

“There are still possibilities--“

“SHUT UP!” she screamed. “Shut the fuck up!!”

He took a step back, and another.

“You’ve killed me, Rhys Macklin,” she breathed. “You’ve killed me.”

“What?”

She pushed herself upright, swaying. “Go on, screw Vonda or Ralna or whoever you want. Don’t save your honor for me. I don’t give a fuck anymore. You’re a widower. You have no wife. You’ve killed me.” She came forward. He tried to touch her, but she pushed past him. “Leave me alone!” she flared, and ran out of the office.


>< >< ><


In Moira—as it happened—Vartan had chosen well for the leader of his ‘Expendables.’ The stocky female Vampire lacked social graces, but during life she had served as a generator technician in the Navy, and had a good head for tactical situations. Having the same night conveyed her one hundred seventy-three charges to Olympia via a Victoria passenger ferry commandeered from its repair yard, and kept them out of Monday’s daylight in a warehouse while she studied maps on a ‘netpad, she had moved them quickly up to the Capitol campus area; thankfully, heavy, murky clouds meant this could be done early.

First was the General Administration Building, containing most essential offices, including the State Patrol HQ. It was vast, far too big to take with a simple assault, but it had emergency generators; so, as the light ebbed, she had put her technical knowledge to use devising a power failure for the complex by rerouting a propane line to the generator banks, and then rigging its main systems to overload via power surge, which set off an explosion and fire as the generators kicked in. A number of Minions were left with commands to slaughter the evacuating personnel and attack first responders. The Legislative Office Building, a few blocks away, was given another group to set off fire alarms and run amok feeding, while she led the final company to the Capitol itself. Here, after cutting the power mains, they deployed weapons, including grenades, plastic explosives, and more fire, and during the frenzy she had great personal satisfaction in being brought the State’s Lieutenant Governor, whom she blooded personally. A machine-gun emplacement was set up in the main staircase, from which nearly a dozen police and security people were cut down.


>< >< ><


For Leonard and the crew of his armored vehicle there was much to do. Just before five, he entered a Beacon Hill restaurant and destroyed it with gunfire, killing thirteen diners and staff and disemboweling a woman on top of the bar, leaving her abdominal contents trailing out the door. Then they had proceeded down to Rainier Avenue, where he had strode out into the middle of the busy thoroughfare and experimented with traffic patterns by opening up on oncoming vehicles, shattering windshields, shredding front ends, and taking satisfied note of those whose bloodied drivers lost control, causing a major pile-up. Having launched several grenades into the thickest mass of wrecked cars and cut down a dozen fleeing drivers, he ran heavily back to where the his vehicle was parked in a disused garage, and ordered the driver to head north.

The black-garbed security man asked: “Are we returning to base, sir?”

Leonard gave his blood-spattered face mask a wipe, then lifted it. “We’re just getting started,” he replied.

The man shook his head. “I can’t do this, sir. I mean, fun is fun, but a lot of people are getting killed. The radio--”

Leonard switched one gun’s selector, and put it to the man’s head. “What do I pay you for?”

“To—to guard you, sir,” said the man nervously. “There’s reports coming in—“

“Screw reports. I pay you to carry out my orders, which include protecting me against the right-wing, breeder terrorist scum who infest this city, bent on murder, rape, and oppression. Other means have failed, so we have to go on the offensive. We have law here. As County Executive, vested with emergency powers, I am that law. By making a mutiny, you are breaking the law and endangering the citizens, and I can’t allow that.”

“Sir—“ Leonard shot the man in the head. As the man slumped, Leonard turned to the other three security people in the vehicle. “Any other objectors?” There were three shaken heads.

“You. Heinrich,” Leonard said to the biggest of the three. “You can drive, right?”

Heinrich nodded and grunted. Leonard gestured with his gun barrel. “Get the traitor out of here. Leave him somewhere out of sight. Then drive.” Within five minutes they were rumbling north.

The armored car encountered surprisingly light vehicle traffic downtown, but passed several police and fire units. As they parked under the ‘Rail on Fifth, one of Leonard’s people said: “We’re ignoring calls for you as you instructed, but the com’s picking up violence all over the place, sir. Bizarre attacks breaking out all over. People being slashed and bitten, fires, vandalism. It’s like an outbreak of some disease crossed with a mass drug overdose, all over, like someone put something in the water.”

“They want terror, do they?” asked Leonard grimly, checking the feed belt to his MACP-41 and closing his face mask. “Call them,” came his voice through the synth. “Call the office.” Inside the helmet, when Sulin answered, he told her, “I want Jason. Bring me Jason, and all this stops.” He ended the call, made a final function check, and, upon the doors opening, leaped out.


>< >< ><


News of the situation in Olympia got to Queen City Police HQ, where Chief Jones and Sheriff Maldonado were in more or less constant holo contact in the evening. The reports were getting more and more disturbing as it appeared that the outbreak of criminals numbered in the hundreds, and many were bent on pure bloodshed, as fast and as much as possible. Buses were taken and all aboard killed. Apartment block doors were smashed in and the buildings fired, to have the fleeing inmates slashed and stabbed—and bitten, and eaten. Video and pictures of mangled bodies and gore-drenched madmen and madwomen were streaming in, from areas that still had communication. The death toll was certain to exceed the Tunnel incident over a widespread area. And Executive Chung could still not be reached—not until 20:34, when Sulin called Jones with a message.

“What is it?” Jones demanded. “Where is he?”

“We picked up a communication from him. All he said was that he wants Jason,” Sulin replied.

Jones had thought he was beyond any further shocks, but this was too much. “’He wants Jason?’” exclaimed the cop. “What is that supposed to mean? Who the hell is Jason?”

“I don’t know, Chief,” replied Sulin. “That’s all he said. ‘I want Jason. Bring me Jason, and all this stops.’ Then the call cut out. We got a fix on the signal, it’s in the downtown area, near Fifth and Stewart, but then we lost it again. Could be a system problem. There are many of those tonight.”

“What’s his security person—a woman—her name?”

“Ms. Hochstein? The information came from her. She’s working with us,” said Sulin.

“Connect her to me,” ordered Jones.

A holo of the big ex-weightlifter sprang up. “We’re doing our best, Chief,” she said. “I can tell you that he’s taken eight of my top personnel with him, and an SUV and armored car are gone. I think he’s decided to evacuate.”

“Fine, but what’s this ‘Jason’ business?”

She said slowly: “Executive Chung took an interest in Jason Macklin. On Friday, I was present when he told Sheriff Mal he wanted Jason Macklin detained for questioning regarding the Belltown killings, and about the Lucky McCullum assault case. And, although Jason is a minor, and the son of Councilor Macklin, he didn’t want Councilor Macklin informed of his intention. I thought that was rather irregular.”

“Yes, but what does any of that have to do with any of this, tonight?” demanded Jones.

“For that,” Erlinda told him, “you will have to ask Executive Chung himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, and ended her connection.

“Damn!” swore Jones. “In the midst of the greatest civil emergency we’ve ever had, including the Tunnel, Leonard does a brody because of Rhys Macklin’s son? What the hell is that all about?”

“We are talking about a fragment that came in. Perhaps it wasn’t meant as a call,” said Sulin. “Maybe it was something else entirely, and wasn’t even addressing us. You heard Ms. Hochstein. He has evidently decided to evacuate, and has an escort.”

“Whom we haven’t heard from, even if he himself is too busy,” fumed Jones. “I’m not going to sit on this. We need a line to the State, to the Feds, now! This isn’t a crime situation. This is a battlefield. We need the military.”

“All I can advise, Chief, is sit tight and keep trying. That is what we’re doing here.”

“Yes, thanks, of course,” said Jones, as someone rapped on his doorframe. “Jones out.”

An officer put her head in. “Sir, all SP25 communications are down. No State Patrol at all. And the State Capitol is on fire.”

“Hudson!” called Jones.

“Yeah, Chief,” came the agent’s voice.

“Get on the line to D.C. now. Tell anyone you can find. This is out of our hands.”


>< >< ><





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While retaining use of the police car would have been in some respects convenient, it would also have been unwise, so after relieving it of its more useful contents, Ralna left it in a location off Elliott Avenue. There were far too many ways to track it; going commando with vehicle requisition remained the most flexible option. Her neighborhood was quiet, although she had encountered some disturbance downtown while taking care of the Boulanger assignment, and two persons she had been able to scan had presented biosigns consistent with the PHE patterns of Taylor and Adela. From periodic communication scans she had some data about distribution and occurrence of the outbreaks, and analysis suggested that there might be many more of these PHEs involved. To that end, she had identified and ended one of those, and collected some tissue and blood samples using the contents of the police car’s aid kit.

Mounting the stairs, she felt hungry. She had been active, and had missed her afternoon snack; the lack of the three thousand calories was starting to tell. Nevertheless, as she entered her apartment, it was time for the evening datasession with Sir, which could not be avoided at any cost. She had just grounded her helmet, bags, and weapons when the com-unit flashed.

She answered, and he said: “Good evening, Ralna. Busy day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you miss our morning datasession?”

“I received no call, sir. I assumed that you had nothing of significance to communicate.”

“I meant, did the lack of a datasession engender any particular feelings in you?”

“No, sir. As I said.”

“Did you have a refreshing day off?”

“Satisfactory, sir, given the emerging situation here. I spend this morning attending to my physical health. I also completed assignment eight-eight-nine-nine-eight epsilon.”

“The lawyer and his assistant?”

“Yes, sir. And the office will yield no information.”

“Excellent.”

“From analysis I ran on Stephen Miller’s hardware, I was able to establish that he was the Compliance Code Office employee who was in receipt of Louise’s clandestine communications from your office.”

“Ah. And to whom was he passing information?”

“To Enrique Cabrera, sir, although someone else had hacked his system, but that was at his office and I don’t yet know who that would be unless I gain access to his actual hardware there.”

“H’m. I think the time has come to end Senor Cabrera. Ralna, code—”

“Excuse me, sir,” she interrupted, “but that has been done. He has been ended already.”

“Very good! Your work?”

“No, sir, but I had confirmation of it from the PD-NET before it went down this evening. That it serves our plans is good, though I had much rather have done it personally had you desired it.”

“Thank you, but it is done, and all is well. Now, you have been on the ground in the city. Are there any facts you have observed about the outbreak that have not been reported?”

“From hand-to-hand encounters, sir, I have bio-sig readings which are not consistent with normal human parameters. They are, however, consistent with two other models, one of which was Taylor, who visited you at home. She not a human, but a PHE, and evidence shows that these are PHEs of her iteration. They display, as you know, a predilection for extreme violence, and biting humans and blood-drinking, sometimes with consuming flesh. I retained some blood and tissue samples, which you might care to compare if you have samples from Taylor.”

“I drew some of her blood, but didn’t take any tissue. It might be instructive. I trust that our, um, feelings with regard to that incident are dealt with?”

“Yes, sir. I have had time to reflect, and gain perspective on the matter.”

“Who is the other model?”

“A female, a sex worker, I believe, called Adela, whom I met one evening while out. I observed her for some time and saw no evidence of violent behavior on her part.”

“Do you have any theories?”

“There is much conflicting data on the putative PHEs of vampirism and lycanthropy. While they are popularly regarded as fiction, there are some striking points. Victims of lycanthropy are said to exhibit similarly violent attributes, while those of vampirism present with the apparent blood-drinking characteristic, and both, of course, are held to operate openly by night, avoiding daylight, and both are said to have greater than normal human muscular strength. In the examples I encountered, I did not remark any physical changes associated with the folklore, such are excessive hirsutism or mandibular mutation. I did notice that, as with Taylor, the example I physically engaged displayed remarkable muscle capacity.”

“I shall have to test Taylor’s blood samples as soon as possible, then, so we have something to match with what you collected.”

“Very good, sir. Will you be at the office tomorrow, in the new location?”

“Yes. I will try to be there at nine, but of course, it would be difficult to fix a precise time given the circumstances. There will be some research assignments in the databurst, priority now being the matter involving John Brunett. Your performance has been very satisfactory. I am not unaware of your activities, and you have been rapidly improving in judgment, discretion, and initiative. I can see the day when you and I, Ralna, could own the world, or at least everything in it worth owning.”

“That would be most satisfactory, sir. Thank you.”

He had codes for her, followed by the usual databurst, containing instructions for the next workday, and with that the call concluded, and Ralna, now very hungry indeed, headed for the kitchen.


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A block up Stewart from where he’d disembarked, Leonard—after stopping to grenade an approaching police car—saw a score of people converged at the locked entryway to a hotel, hammering at the glass. Some of them, in the light, looked bloodied. He trained the MACP on them and ripped them up, shattering the glass, and ran into the reception area. There he saw people scattering up stairs to a balcony level, and fleeing down corridors. Two guards were firing at him with their pistols; he could feel some taps on his suit where bullets were striking. He took a few steps toward them, elevating his abdominal erection and whirring the blades. They turned to run, and he cut them both down. One fell face-down across a chair, so he pulled the man’s legs apart and used the erection to drill into the man’s rectum, and pulled it back and forth for a few delectable moments while devastating more lobby with autofire; then he pulled it out in a spatter of blood and entrails, turning to face an influx of more people from the street, screaming, some of them running for him with bloody mouths. He mowed them down, then decided to head upstairs for a little hide-and-seek fun. If the situation was really that chaotic, they wouldn’t be sending SWAT teams for him anytime soon.


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On the street near Denny Park, where he was blooding new Minions, Vartan received a sat-com call from Moira in Olympia. He rose from his work, stretching, walking around, feeling the refreshing chill of the night air, listening to the savory wail of sirens, feeling fear in the air almost physically. It had been very long since he had indulged on such a scale. “Yes?” he asked, in a fine humor. “What can I do you for, Moira? What’s your progress?”

“Emergency and police bands disabled, General Admin and legislative offices taken down, basing in Capitol Building. Will hold until dawn, if possible.”

“Excellent.”

“Communications and power will probably be back up in a day or two, but the shitty underwear will go on forever,” she said.

“See you don’t spare the Expendables,” he reminded her. “They’re there to be expended, after all. When dawn gets close, kill them yourself if you have to. Ideally, none will survive.”

“I wanted to ask you about that. What about transformations?”

“Transformations?” he asked, intrigued.

“Yes, I’ve seen evidence of two myself. Some of them have been Minions a long time, I guess, and tonight are displaying transformation traits. They have become full Vampires. Does that change the game?”

Vartan thought carefully for a moment. “Yes,” he answered. “But you must talk to them. Inform them that they can live, but by the command of your own Elder must stay south of the King County line. Anything south and west of that, or across the mountains, or anywhere else is fair game if they can establish themselves, and we will recognize their domains. Without prejudice to your own plans, of course.”

“Any domain in Tacoma?”

“Not for many years that I’ve been aware of. You were a veteran in life, were you?”

“Navy. I wouldn’t mind showing the Army and Air Force how it’s done,” she said, evidently thinking of Fort Lewis and McChord Air Force Base.

“If you succeed in setting up there, I will recognize you. Lewis and Thurston Counties would make a tidy dominion for a sensible Vampire.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” said Moira. “Will call again at dawn, or before if anything unexpected develops.”

“Thanks. You have done well, Moira,” said Vartan, and ended the call.


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She was walking, looking up at a sky of fire, wading through a river of blood; there had been a battle, a great war, a war to end a world, and she was the last survivor of it—perhaps … but her blood flowed, too, from a dozen wounds, down her body, her hips, her legs, to flow into the mass. Her throat burned, but she had to struggle on. It was not done yet …there was something else, something she needed to find … if only she could remember what it was …

And Janine Sandoval opened her eyes, gasping, on her mattress in the Camp Freedom women’s staff bunkhouse, drenched in ice-cold sweat, and her head about to split with pain. It was, she saw, turning slowly, 0430. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, but getting up would mean either stumbling around in the cold dark, or turning on a light and waking up others. She had never woken up with a headache before; she wasn’t sure it was even possible, despite what some people said.

She turned over and buried her face in her clammy pillow. And when she got up an hour later, turning a light on, she would find a smear of blood on it.


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