| From: | "Andrew W. Ragland" <RAGLAN54@***.BITNET> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | More stories |
| Date: | Fri, 18 Jun 1993 05:53:19 -0600 |
REX TREMENDAE
The line outside was long and mean, and as strange to me as the
people who stood on it. I'd been to Seattle before, to this very club in
fact, and was continuously amazed by what I saw. I understand dressing for
style, for impact, but physical extremism remains repulsive to me. Home, we
run the shadows as hard as any, and our colors show it. We wear clothes
that suit us, that make our work and lives easier, simpler. Of course we're
individuals and our clothing reflects that. Each policlub keeps careful
watch on the fashion of the opposition, but none of us would consider
overt physical mutilation as a sign of superiority. Customize and
internalize. Flaunt it however, and you're asking for a slam-dunk from the
first metropolice squad that sees you.
Here in American, especially this town, you're not anybody unless you
get noticed walking down the street. These people are alien to me: my life
is the streets, anywhere in the world, but to be noticed on them is death.
A friend once joked to me that the American affinity for chrome comes from
some racial memory of century-old automobiles. I'm afraid he might be
right.
There is very little subtlety here. The line of people I pass all
want in to the place I am going, but know full well that they are not
wanted. To them, the attempt at getting into Inferno is as valuable as
actually dancing on its glass floors. In Europe, if you cannot get in one
place, you go somewhere else. To stand on line to be seen in a club is to
us a sign of intellectual weakness.
Reaching the door I stifled a laugh. Dwarfed by his huge size, a
black and red glad girl was trying to talk her way past the doorbeing She
wouldn't get in, she wasn't known. I was.
I nodded at the troll, brushed past, and the gander-girl cursed me
for it. I'd never heard City-Speak mangled with such guttural inexperience
so I stopped, and slowly turned to look at her. She was shorter than I, but
jacked up by a pair of iridescent black razor-spike boots. Shaded hair,
its color moving from iridescent black to white and back again, framed her
face. A true looker by any standards, ignoring of course the hot, quick
death in her eyes. She glared at me waiting for an equally venomous
response, but I held back. There was far too much at stake tonight to
humor her.
Looking at her, I said nothing and kept my face expressionless. I'd
give her the dead-face for a few more seconds and then turn and be gone,
but she surprised me by cursing again, this time perfectly. Now I smiled.
Her first curse had been sudden, impulsive, and fractured. The second was
perfect, even down to the cross-talk inflection. She was chip-trained, no
question, but trained only. If she was wearing, her first shot would have
come out like a veteran.
My smile broadened as I examined her more fully. The apparel was
right: all the proper straps and chains tight and loose where fashion
demanded. Quad-colored earrings danced slowly on her ears, shifting in the
changing street light. Her corneal tint was near phosphorescent, designed
to pull your eyes to them even in the darkest shag-joints. She was
absolutely perfect, the ultimate gander-girl, and there-in was her failing.
You could tell a real gander-girl by her flaws, the near negligible
somethings that speak to you of the person beneath the glaze. This girl
was almost archetypical, and that made her interesting.
I weighed my options, her paradox versus my purpose tonight, and
decided to take the risk. I nodded again at the troll and spoke just
quietly enough for him to hear. "Sorry, she's with me." I said.
She apparently heard me, and started a bit at my words. I motioned
for her to take the lead. She glanced once at the troll, but turned away
fast from his quick, feral grin. As she passed, I placed my fingertips
gently at the small of her back and guided her forward. Her coat was real,
natural denim, not the far cheaper synthetics that `real' gander-girls
paraded in. But then, this one wouldn't know that. The fan-screens never
talk about things like that, things like truths.
We continued on down the run and out onto the upper-most level of
Dante's Inferno. I hated the place, but when in town was a semi-regular
out of habit. I'd done a run for Dante once involving his London club that
if word ever leaked out on would see him in little pieces by morning.
EBM[2] never forgets.
The band had apparently just taken the upper stage before we
entered. A staccato riff from the lead ten-string triggered the
sync-systems, bathing the levels in pulsing light and liquid noise.
Shag-metal was rip in this town, which made my desire to go
transcontinental all the stronger. It was enough that I could very well
die tonight, but to have `Bangin' The Duke' as my funeral dirge was a
little too much.
Back home there was some recognition, some memory, of where we'd been
as a people; not this all-consuming lust for what might someday be. I
sighed, admitting how much I was deceiving myself. Our past was as dead to
most of us as it was to the people thrashing around me. We'd erected our
facades of cultural superiority as technology blurred the lines between
nations, and watched as chipped languages destroyed Europe. The little
twists that made each country's people unique dissolved under the onslaught
of a multi-tongued city/party hoppers. Politically we were fragmented, and
socially we were sliding back into the primeval pond scum.
From scum we'd been born once, and from scum we'd come again. The
Restoration was Europe's only hope for survival, but its masters were
insuring our cultural death with it. To return to the glory days of
nationalism and radical politics was our only hope for survival. The
Neo-Europe District of the Global Village must never come to be. The
Euro-corps, worshipping the grail of unrestricted growth, were the
Restoration's driving force. No boundaries meant no import/export tariffs.
It meant shifting worker pools and cheap labor. It meant death for
three-thousand years of dynamic social expression.
The policlubs had been born out of the desire to remake Europe in
man's contentous image, to rebuild Europea Divisive. We alone keep alive
the flame of political activism and expression. Without us Europe would
quickly become a corporate Disneyverse. Naturally, we all do not agree on
what will be, and why should we. Behind the scenes of the Restoration we
war: in the streets, on the data-faxes, in the hearts and minds of those
who are alive enough to listen. Europe will not become another Manhattan,
or even another Seattle, and I've come here to insure that.
I pulled gently on the girl's coat and she stopped, turning her head
to eye me quizzically. "Watch the dancers." I said, and she did. I moved
sideways a few steps and leaned myself against one of the light-filled
poles and relaxed. I focused myself on one of the pulsing lasers and let
its rhythm enter me.
A moment passed. Then a longer one. Existence ended and I was free.
My vision shifted beyond the confines of my body and I saw the world as few
saw it. Ghosts of men and women locked in the mundane world danced in
front of me, oblivious. I scanned this level quickly. There was some
activity, but nothing to warrant further interest. Pale and dim auras from
cheap trinkets bought from street corner charlatans hawking safety, love,
and status were in evidence. No bright blossoming or shifting images,
everything was smooth. The astral forms of the dancers on the glass floors
at each level below me blocked much of my view, but I was confident. I
dropped through all the levels quickly and momentarily gazed upon my
destination. There was nothing to see except the cool green of the
shield-wall surrounding it, and no sign of the person I was to meet. There
was no way to tell if she was inside or not, the shield saw to that. The
only way in was to physically walk in, unless you broke the shield. That
was something I couldn't do, that most humans couldn't do.
My body jerked once as my mind returned and the girl turned again to
look at me, unsure of what she was supposed to be looking at. I stepped
forward, took her hand and led her away.
We moved down the ramp a few levels, and half-way to our destination
I passed a corporate cowboy wearing the Saeder-Krupp dragon and German flag
hologo, and paused. The design was popular, so seeing it here wasn't that
unusual, but coincidences always rankled me. The woman I was meeting was
too unsure of my motives, or knowledge, to involve anyone else at this
point. She was crafty, and powerful, but I had been very careful to keep
her guessing. `Know your enemy, and then use that knowledge against him'
was a favorite saying of her following. She knew little about me, and what
she did know was hopefully only what I wanted her to know. Unfortunately,
I knew even less about her. I ignored my companions questioning glance,
and we moved on.
Reaching the sixth level I took the maybe gander-girl over to the
nearest bar and signaled the barkeep. I felt her move gently against me
and turned slightly. Her gaze dipped and rose. "Um, thanks." Beneath
the slightly glowing tint her eyes were royal blue. "My names Karyn, with
a `y'."
I smiled. "No, it's not."
She blinked twice and the elf wiped the area in front of us, leaning
in. Tallin pitched his voice to me alone and spoke in clear, unaccented
Russian. "Greetings my friend, how is the Art?"
I replied in the same tongue, a little rusty. "Harried as usual."
"A man named Shavan is waiting for you in Hell."
"A man?"
He shrugged. "A figure of speech."
"So-ka. My usual, and a Firedrake for my friend." I pulled my
credstick from its wrist-sheath, but the elf waved it away. His reply
was in English as he moved away. "Taken care of my man." he said, "The
Inferno still owes you." I returned the stick to its sheath. Dante's
debt to me would be repaid with interest tonight.
The crowd roared and a glare of hard colorless light cut the room.
I'd seen the act on stage before and figured the lead singer had just lit a
small piece of NightLight and was trying to gleefully shove it down
someone's throat. Ah, art.
The girl pressed against me again, her hand casually lying palm up on
my thigh. "Nice line." she said, dropping the timbre of her voice. "I
almost thought you did know. Just for a second."
This time I didn't smile. "No, you're still not sure." She glanced
away as our drinks arrived and stared with surprise at the Firedrake. I
shot down my Blind Reaper and gently touched her arm near the elbow.
"That's your favorite drink." She looked up at me. "Your name is not
Karyn, with a `y'. And you are not from anywhere near here." Surprise, and
a little fear, swam in her eye. "But that's okay. Tonight you're with me."
I brought her left hand up to my face, gently kissed her palm, and
then closed it. "I have business, it may take some time, but I want you to
hold something for me." Power danced quietly behind my eyes and she
gasped. She'd felt the change.
Her hand opened slowly and a jumble of soft brilliant red silk
unfolded, forming first a flower, and then falling, draping to cover her
hand. I gathered it up and tied it aw her throat, a flare of color against
her. She touched it and stared at me, an odd glistening moving through her
corneal tint. The left corner of her mouth twitched. "You can give it to
me later." My voice was low, barely audible and she strained forward to
hear me. She'd felt the silk appear in her hands, but wasn't sure if I'd
used bar-stool sorcery or the real thing to get it there. She'd think
about, and then think about it some more, and then want to know. Later,
I'd let her. My hand glid across her cheek and brushed hair as I moved
away, not looking back. If my business went well, I would be alive enough
to need a place to disappear to. If I'd read her right the girl was the
bored daughter of some equally bored ultrasilk-suit type. Tired of the
macro-glass scene, she'd become enraptured by the gleam of the streets, but
remained completely blind to its workings. Too frightened of being
rejected as who she really was she'd gandered herself up like the vids.
She'd followed the templates to the letter, and given herself away.
The quadruple ramps spiraled downward around the outer edge of the
club mimicking the gene-spiral quite nicely. Deeper and deeper into
corruption I walked as each level mimicked the names and places of Dante's
nightmare: the author's and the owners. I ignored the screams, and other
sounds, preparing myself as I descended.
Below the lowest dance floor, down a short winding ramp, was Hell.
No sign marked its presence, you had to know it was there. Flanking its
entrance were a pair of lightly clad androgynous figures who watched each
of my steps with a near feverish interest. I stuck my hands in my pockets,
the twins twitched, and I flashed them a grin as I approached. "Shavan is
waiting for me."
The left one nodded as the right one spoke. "Indeed," it said. "You
are expected."
Its voice was laced with the undertone of rushing water, and its gaze
was the hue of ice. Their bodies were perfect, scarless, some say the best
Chiba ever made. I doubted it, but that was no reason to pick a fight.
They were the perfect guards for Hell.
Flash the fat credstick and you could rent Hell and be assured of
complete privacy. It was swept magically and electronically before and
after every meeting. Once the participants were inside, no one else got in.
No spiritual eavesdropping here, the astral shield prevented that. No way
in through the higher plane as well, and that is exactly what I hoped
Shavan was banking on.
Hell's designers had been kind enough to include a sizable foyer just
inside the outer doors to allow a moment of preparation. Unfortunately,
there were few spells I could raise and maintain that she wouldn't detect.
Keeping her calm until just the right moment was one of my keys to walking
away. I checked my gear once and then dropped down onto the floor in a
lotus position. My rhythm of my pulse released me and I gave the
shield-lattice and the area a quick astral once over. Everything was quiet,
but it was still early. My senses returned and I prepared myself.
Shavan was an enigma. As the head of the policlub The Revenants, she
wielded a great amount of power. Little was known about her, and less than
a handful had ever actually met her. The only description that I'd ever
got was that she was apparently of Nordic descent, but in this day and age
only a DNA marker quiz could tell for sure. She was a powerful sorceress,
and had relied on that to conceal her trip to Seattle. She needed to speak
to someone, and that someone was certainly not coming to her. What she
hadn't counted on was that a good friend of mine knew how to look better
than she knew how to hide.
Shavan had been surprised that I'd known she was in Seattle, let
alone where to find her. She'd thought her business was deep in the
shadows. That was her first mistake. Her second was believing what I'd
offered her to be genuine.
I'd chosen the meeting place, one known for its security, and she'd
chosen the time. My only security was her word that she'd be there, and
that was enough. We both had reputations to live up to.
I stepped through the inner doors and entered. I was late.
She was waiting for me, as I'd been told she would, but looked
nothing like I'd expected. A slightly wicked smile crossed her face as she
regarded me. "Alexander, fancy meeting you here."
I scanned the room to hide my surprise. The room and all its
accessories were pure white, contrasting against her completely. Almost
everything about her was dark. Her clothes, her skin, her voice, even her
eyes.
She laughed. "I believe this is yours." Reaching into her pocket,
she pulled out a bright red ball of silk and let it drop gently on one of
the couches. "A very effective technique, I must say. I might even use it
when I'm in one of my gentler moods."
The odds against me slipping free suddenly crashed dramatically. My
mind raced through the possibilities of how she'd gotten the silk, and I
rejected all of them. There was no way she could have, and beat me here.
Regardless, it had served its purpose and broken my momentum. My options
halved, and I was still at least five minutes away from playing my real
cards. Until then my bluff ones would have to do.
I picked up the silk and tied it at my throat. "Do you like it?" I
asked keeping my voice as level as I could.
She seemed amused. "Like it?"
"The silk."
Her amusement grew. "Ah, Well, it's attractive, I must admit. Real
no doubt." She faced me three-quarters and began mixing a drink.
"One hundred percent."
"Only the best for Alexander."
I let the few moments pass as I wandered carefully to the
audio-visual console and scanned the selection menu. "Only the best for
Gunther Steadman.", I said pressing the touch-sensitive screens. I cued the
first start mid-through, and the second to follow it after a short pause.
The name had surprised her, and she'd clamped herself down quickly as
I said it. She knew he was dead. I'd seen the sudden shift of surprise,
fear, and anger rifle through her, only to be replaced by her calm. My
sensitivities to emotions had saved me many times, but she was far too easy
to read for someone of her power. All the better.
Nonchalantly, she finished mixing a drink and half turned toward me.
"I'm surprised, red's not Steadman's color."
As she spoke my selection rose slowly in the room, giving her pause
and allowing me an opening. I'd seen the piece and taken a gamble, now
hearing it I was hoping I hadn't overplayed my hand. "It is now." I
replied, just loud enough.
The music hit her, and I could see the tenseness grow in her as she
turned to face me directly. "This wouldn't be a threat, would it?" Only
her eyes followed me as I sat down on a nearby float couch. She continued,
her voice was flat. "I don't think there are many who would think of
Requiem as a suitable background for business dealings."
I shrugged. "I like it. It relaxes me. Just think of it as being in
honor of Steadman."
She relaxed fractionally, and thinking me none the wise, lied. "So
he's dead."
I nodded, stretched my hands our across the back of the couch, and
told her what I was damn sure she already knew. "Three days ago in Hamburg.
Bullet-train in the skull. Nasty nasty." And there was only one way she
could have known I hadn't lied.
"So who's running Der Nachtmachen now? Who are you representing?" she
asked, studying me intently.
"It's not really important," I replied casually. "the offer is the
same." "On the contrary, it's very important." She moved toward me a few
feet, gracefully lifted herself onto the back of the couch opposite me and
pulled herself into a lotus position. "I want to know."
The first part of Mozart's Requiem began to turn toward its
conclusion, and I knew my five minutes were slowly dissolving away.
Standing up, I placed my left boot on the glass coffee table and adjusted
the straps. I did it slowly and carefully, so as not to alarm her, but to
delay my response just enough to annoy. When I'd finished, I sat back down
exactly as I had been. I smiled. "Well, technically I am."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You are?" she asked incredulously. "You're
lying, the Nightmakers would never accept you. You're a runner. You're
damn close to what they hate most."
I shrugged lightly. "Think of it as a military coup." I said
suddenly staring her straight in the eyes. "Besides, I said technically.
I issue the orders, but they come from Steadman's mouth. Rather, what's
left of it."
False understanding glinted in her eyes. "You're playing on that
religious fanatical edge they've always had, aren't you?"
Nodding, I noted that the Introitus had stopped and the next
selection was about to begin, after my programmed pause. Time to play the
cards. I stood up.
"Enough talk." I was sensitive enough to emotions to know how to
manipulate them, even in one like Shavan. My movement, pitch, and
inflection snapped her on the defensive. "We've made a decision. Der
Nachtmachen no longer finds it acceptable for you to be the shadow-liege of
The Revenants. Our unification offer is withdrawn."
Shavan unfolded herself and stood up to face me, her eyes taking on a
Medusan quality. There was no doubt about it, the lady was pissed. "`Find
it not acceptable'! You think you can bully me? Bully us?" she hissed at
me, and I didn't need my astral sight to see the building power.
"Saeder-Krupp has already agreed to the funding, my stupid friend. With
their nuyen The Revenants are going to yank the reigns of the European
Restoration out of the hands of the bureaucrats and put it back in the
hands of the people!"
I shook my head, turned, and step-vaulted over the float couch,
putting it between us. As I landed, I turned and saw she'd cut herself
short on a spell, but not short enough to hurt. "I think I read that on
your last scream sheet, didn't I?" I pushed back my leather coat and
jammed my thumbs in my pants pockets.
Her voice and anger rose together, and I knew I was moments away from
cinder-city. "You of all people know I'm right!" Her left hand shot out
and pointed at me. "How many trillions have been spent so far so the
contractors and the analysts can build their villas?"
I shrugged yet again. "I don't know, but I was always fond of the
Revenant's little hide-away on the Southern Riviera. Great view."
Shavan's anger solidified as her arm slowly came down and she shifted
into a neutral, pro-aggressive stance. "Why now? Der Nachtmachen has
always supported our view. Steadman did, his people did, even you did when
you cared to comment. I want to know why you changed your minds." Ever
kind, she left off the `before I kill you', but the words still came out
clipped and hard. Without realizing it she'd shifted into German. My
programmed pause was almost up.
"Why? We haven't, and you haven't been listening." I slowly spread
my hands wide. I walked clear of the furniture and dropped myself into a
lotus position and in doing so declared duel. She smiled, but I continued.
"Der Nachtmachen firmly believes in Europea Divisive, no question. You,
however, made the wrong move."
About fifteen feet away from me she dropped down as well, mimicking
my position. I nodded, we breathed, and the world became walls of
scintilating green energy. The shield that kept prying eyes and hands out
would be the boundaries of our battles. We couldn't get out, and nothing
could get in, or so she believed.
As we'd shifted I'd triggered the spell embedded in my pinky ring.
As I floated free, it manifested adjacent to my body as a point of twirling
copper light. She could tell by looking that its power level offered her
no threat, but she kept her eye on it none the less.
I continued. "You went to Saeder-Krupp. You wanted the nuyen, but
you could have gotten that from just about anyone. You kept it quiet
because you didn't want it known you were getting the credit from a
corporation." The glare in her eyes was truly blinding, and by her aura
there was no question I was seconds from death. I had to keep talking,
keep her interested just long enough.
"More than money, you wanted the Dragon, and you wanted him enough to
come to Seattle to see him." I paused to watch her eyes narrow. "You
wanted Lofwyr behind you."
"So?" she snapped. "With the Dragon backing us we could rally the
sleepy Awakened."
"Saeder-Krupp is one of the controlling corporations of the
Restoration. Why would he betray it for a bunch of street hustlers?"
Her eyes glinted as she saw an opening. "I've spoken with him. You
forget how old he is. A Restored Europe would quickly become a concrete
Europe. He wants it to go back to the way he remembers it."
Now it was my turn. "God damn it, Shavan! Haven't you ever read
Saeder-Krupps profile? Who do you think builds more heavy industry plants
in Europe every year? Who do you think pumps more toxins into the
atmosphere? Who do you think pollutes more rivers?"
"Those are all companies he bought. It takes time to bring them into
line enviorn-" A shape moved somewhere beyond the shield and I cut her off
hard.
"I don't run Der Nachtmachen, a friend of mine does. And he doesn't
want his brother screwing around in Europe!"
We both moved. My hands slammed together and I pumped all my will
into the Shattershield spell. Raw astral force ripped around us, and hot
power streamed upward out of me tearing into the lattice. I felt tendrils
if ice whip into me as her attack struck, and I reeled trying to control
the power arcing around me. As my bolt impacted, the shield was hit hard
from the outside. Unable to withstand the duel concussion, it shattered,
raining prismatic energy. A dark form poured down through the shards as
the music exploded out of my copper energy globe.
Falling away, my power slipping from me, I saw her for the last time.
The Dragon's astral form slammed into her, its aetherial claws tearing
great jagged rips into her spirit body. Magical energies flowed from her
to course ineffectually around the Dragon. I shuddered as her screams
merged with the Dragon's roar.
"Shavan, meet Alamais!" I cried out unheard.
The world spun into red-tinged darkness, the music stopped, and I
grew calm.
Sometime later I floated. My senses were dead, but I was acutely
aware of the sensation.
"Alexander."
I tried to turn toward the source, but found it to be everywhere.
"Alamais?" I thought.
"Good guess."
I think I smiled. "You have a distinctive though-voice."
"I would imagine."
There was a pause, and I waited.
"So?" I asked finally.
"So?" he repeated.
"So, did you get her?"
The Dragon snorted, and I felt a warm shudder. "Every last bit."
"Any sign of Lofwyr?" I asked. One of our greatest perils was that
Alamais' brother would sense his presence and come checking.
"None. He's probably sleeping as usual. Always quickly sated that
one." He chuckled lightly.
"Do you think this will keep him out of Europe?"
"Unlikely, but it will give him pause. Shavan was very powerful, a
child of the Elders, and you'll get the credit. He'll have to think hard
about who he's facing."
"Wonderful."
"Bask in your glory! Once the Nightmakers hear the tale, from
Steadman of course, you'll be their hero. And Steadman will be one step
closer to his final resting place."
I made nodding thought and felt my senses returning. "How bad am I?"
I asked hesitantly. "Worse than you thought, but better than I expected."
"Well, that's nice to hear."
"You'll be able to walk, and hold a moderately coherent conversation,
but you'll probably be feeling a lot like Steadman." He chuckled again.
"It'll take some time to get your essence flow back to normal, but I know
some big juju that'll do the trick. I arranged with Dante for the room
shield to be raised again as soon as I'm gone, so there'll be no sign of my
have been here."
Soft carpeting pressed against me, and Mozart filled my ears. I
smiled, sensed the Dragon's questioning presence and laughed. "The music
Alamais, the words! I wanted Confutatis to scare her as I cast the spell.
Not only did I miss time it, I must have keyed the wrong sequence."
And Alamais sang, his words soaring with the music. Latin no longer
dead, but uttered by one of the mightiest creatures ever to speak.
Rex tremendae majestatis
King of awful majesty,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis
who freely savest the redeemed,
Salva me, fons peitatis
save me, O fount of mercy.
The Dragon laughed, and I knew I would never, ever live it down.
