Caine's Law (50 page)

To either side of the screens on each desktop were inset disks of what looked like the same composite, nine or ten inches in diameter. He brushed his fingers across one, to feel the texture, and the screen beside it lit up.

“Oh, like that, is it?” he muttered. He took his fingers off the inset—there was no one on Earth he really wanted to talk to, and actually if Earth found out he was here it would be a serious fucking problem in and of itself—and ducked under the counter to get a look at the workstation from below.

No power cords. Nothing like them. Instead he found a branching array of dark tubing—something disturbingly almost-but-not-quite random about their arrangement. Yeah: blood vessels.

Apparently shit gets weird in the vicinity of the gate.

He stuck one of his boot knives into one of the smallest tubes, about
the same size as an I.V. line … and it came back out with its tip painted in black oil that was already beginning to smoke.

“Huh.” Scratch the
apparently
. “All right, then.”

A couple minutes later, he was back out in the corridor with Tucker. He swung the hatch shut and dogged it from the outside. “Time to go.”

“What about the office?”

“They’re about to have a fire.”

An only half-muffled
boom
emphasized his point—and it came with a shock they could feel through the stone, and the hatch buckled and smoke leaked out around the seal and he said, “Okay, more than a fire.”

“Now the gate?”

“Can we do it?”

“Hard to say. The gate area is NFP without a Social Police escort.”

“NFP?”

“No fucking people. And they’ve got a couple guys posted at an armored hatch to enforce it. Real armor, not this shit here.”

“Not much point hanging around, though.”

Tucker shrugged. “This way.”

The accessway to the gate itself was down another two and a half levels. The final thirty yards was a corridor-like tunnel, straight and flat and only six or seven feet wide. At the far end, Tucker reported, would be posted a pair of Social Police in full anti-magick armor, assault rifles, grenades, night vision, the works.

“That’s fucking inconvenient.”

“They’re not there to be easy.”

“What’s your plan?”

Tucker shrugged and handed him something round and heavy. “It may be that stealth has outlived its usefulness.”

It was a grenade. “Cool. I’m sick of sneaking around.”

“Which is why you’ll always be a better Actor than you are an operative.”

“So?”

“So nothing. Set down the lamp. It’s only another hundred yards.”

“Um, I can’t Nightsee. All I’ve got is Discipline.”

“I’ll point you in the right direction. After that, we can see by the light of burning Social Police.”

“Jesus, it’s like talking to myself.”

“Stop it. You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“I’m starting to get why nobody likes me.”

“Shh.”

It was darker than dark. After almost a minute of silently cautious creep, he felt a hand on his left arm. He stopped. His arm was directed to a corner just ahead. He explored it only with his fingertips. Then on his wrist: three fingers, then two, then one, then he triggered his grenade and whipped it sharply around the corner, then flattened himself against the wall and covered his ears with both hands as he felt Tucker do the same. One of the soapies had time to yell
Grenade!
before twin detonations blasted fire all the way back out the mouth of the corridor.

There was a less-welcome sound too: assault rifles on autoburst, suppressing fire. Slugs shrieked out the mouth and shattered against the corridor wall.

“I really have to get myself some of that armor,” Tucker said as he leaned around the corner and sprayed fire with his pistol on full auto—two seconds at ten rounds per—and the rifle fire stopped. Tucker slapped in a fresh clip. “Come on.”

Flames still licked upward from the residue of whatever the hell the incendiary had been. The two soapies lay like abandoned maquettes, every muscle locked in rictus so extreme that they didn’t even look like people—magickal Hold, or something like it. “Holy shit.”

Tucker flashed him a grin. “Custom ammo.”

“No, really?”

“How about you lend me one of those toadstickers of yours?”

He pulled one of the long fighting knives from inside his tunic. Tucker took it and slid its point under one soapy’s helmet below his ear, then jammed it all the way in and gave a twist for good measure. He did the same to the other, then wiped the blade on one’s armor and returned it. “When Tucker disappears instead of coming back out, somebody’s gonna remember he didn’t take away your knives. Now if I need to be him again sometime, all I need is a harrowing story of my narrow escape.”

“So if you’re loading wildcat rounds that pop their armor, how come the grenades?”

“Knocking on the door,” he said. “It only opens from the other side, and I don’t know the passcode.”

“What if they’re not curious? Or too smart to go for it?”

“Hey, you don’t like my plan, take over.”

“Huh.” He looked down at the dead soapies. “Check it out.”

Their blood was on fire.

“What the fuck?” Tucker dropped to one knee, and tentatively sniffed the twisting coils of black smoke that came up from beneath their helmets
and through rents in their chest armor. Even the swath where he’d wiped the blade was smoldering. “That’s not blood. It’s not oil either. Not any oil I’ve ever smelled. Aren’t these guys human?”

“More or less.” He bent down and put his hand to one’s neck wound. The fire went out, and when he pulled his hand back, his fingertips were painted with familiar black goo. “Shit gets weird near the gate.”

“What is that gunk?”

“Blood. More or less.”

“Like they were more-or-less human?”

“Yeah. It’s not their blood. It’s their god’s. More or less.”

“Um …”

“You might want to step back.” He stuck both hands back down into the oil, and leaned on the dead man’s chest to squeeze an extra couple ounces out. “This could get a little entertaining.”

“Yeah, good thing. I was about to doze the fuck off.”

He stood, raising his hands before him like a scrubbed-in surgeon, and let the black oil roll down his wrists toward his elbows. A couple drops spattered the floor, and instantly kindled greasy flames. Tucker turned kind of sidelong, leaning away as if he hadn’t quite made up his mind whether he should bolt. “How come it doesn’t burn when it’s on you?”

“Same reason it didn’t burn those soapies from the inside out. The energy’s being used for something else.”

“Like what?”

“Shh.” He closed his eyes. “This is trickier than it looks.”

“It’d have to be.”

“Quiet.” He breathed himself into mindview. It didn’t take long. He’d been practicing.

Images swam into focus inside his head. “Four soapies farside—full enforcement squad, which means one capture-and-detain guy with stickyfoam and tanglefoot and who knows what else, a primary striker and a reserve striker, and one heavy support guy. Not to mention they’re behind two dedicated hardpoints.”

“Not the best news I’ve heard today.”

“They haven’t breached the door because they’re waiting for somebody.”

“Backup?”

“Front-up. Whoever it is, they’re scared. Hot staggering fuck. Make that
whatever
it is. They’re about to piss themselves, and I’m not making that up.”

And now inside his head, as he sought to slide deeper into the oil after the source of their fear, a vast and ancient consciousness tasted his mind.

And winked at him.

He withdrew with a lurch, and opened his eyes. “Know what it takes to frighten Social Police?”

“Not a clue.”

“Me neither. This looks like serious fucking trouble.”

“Can you—do whatever it is you’re doing—deeper in? Get a look?”

He shook his head. “It fought back. Whatever the fuck it is, it felt me going in, and it wasn’t happy about it. Not one little bit. It’s stronger than I am. A lot. It’s probably what they’re expecting.”

“You are a fountain of good news. Except not for us.”

“It gets better.” He had to take a breath and swallow to untie a knot of nausea in his guts. “It knew me.”

“Knew you as in knows you? This just gets better and better. Do you know
it
?”

Muscle bunched along his jaw. “Nothing on the short list will cheer you up. Listen, Tucker—Tanner, whateverthefuck your name really is—you can still make it out of here. You’ve done a great job today. Go live long enough to do others.”

“Now you’re having me on, and I don’t much admire your sense of humor.” It was Tanner’s voice.

“The Monasteries need people like you. Being human on the other side of this door is about to be a bad idea.”

“You’re going.”

“I don’t have a choice. You do. Make the right one.”

He rotated his shoulders, cracked his neck, and checked the loads in his pistol’s clip. “In the words of an old pal of mine—Jonnie, his name was, you’d like him,” he said through a lopsided smile. “He used to say ‘I wouldn’t have come to the party if I didn’t want to dance.’ ”

“Whatever.” He closed his eyes again. “Give me another couple quiet seconds. I’ll handle the Social Police.”

“Seriously?”

“Shh.”

Mindview came on instantly. The enforcement squad was barely perceptible now, three-quarters buried in imaginary trans-real muck. No time to be subtle.

Also no inclination.

He made his left hand a fist as if he could grab and hold his perception. Then he did the same with his right. The Social Police vanished from his mind. Something behind him made a muffled, raggedly wet
fwaptch
, and the greasy smoke thickened into a choking cloud.

Tucker yelped and jumped away to flatten himself against the wall. “Sweet mother of fuck my god’s
asshole
,” he gasped. “Whyn’t you
warn
a guy?”

He frowned down at the corpses of the two soapies. As near as he could tell, the
fwaptch
had been the sounds of their heads exploding inside their helmets. “Could have been worse.”

“Worse?”

“Could have taken off their helmets first. Stand back.”

There was still enough oil on his hands to make him look like he’d been greasing wagon wheels. He again made fists, and the edges of the steel door caught fire, eye-burning white.

“Holy shit.” Tucker stared. “Second coming of Lazarus fucking Dane …”

“Yeah, off by an order of magnitude or three. But thanks anyway.”

“It wasn’t a compliment,” he said with feeling. “I can’t wait to file my History. They will fucking lock me up.”

A swift side kick into the center knocked the door flat. On the far side, the helmets of four fallen Social Police belched billows of smoke. “Um, listen,” Tucker said faintly, “anything I have ever done that you don’t like—anything at all—I just want to say I’m sorry. I am very, very sorry. I apologize unreservedly—”

“Which way to the gate?”

“Weren’t you just down here?”

“Unconscious with a bag on my head, smart guy.”

Three archways opened into corridors. The only light came from the burning Social Police in the hall outside. No doors in this little chamber, just a table with black bags on it—he couldn’t help wondering if one of them still had chunks of his puke in it—along with some fruit, sliced meats and cheeses, and a plate of cookies. A watercooler stood to one side. Tucker saw him frowning at it. “What’s the matter?”

“Cookies,” he said slowly. “Somebody put out cookies for the Social Police.”

“Looks like they ate some too. What do you care?”

“I can’t explain. It’s just … I don’t know. Wrong.” He shook himself back to business. “Listen, this is your last chance to bail, Tucker. Go.”

“What part of ‘I wouldn’t have come to the party’ did you not understand?”

“Cut it out. You’re after the Butcher’s Fist.”

He took it without a blink. “If that’s true—and nobody’s saying it is—a chance to stuff the Hand of Khryl inside a Vault of Binding is worth
more than both our lives,” he said easily. “However many you actually have.”

“You don’t get it. Everything I told t’Passe? Just a come-on. I’m not here to recover the Fist.”

“Then you won’t mind if somebody packs it off to Thorncleft, right?”

“Trying will get you killed. If you’re lucky. There are worse things than dying.”

“So I hear. If I ever come across one, I’ll let you know.”

“Fuck it. I don’t like you enough to argue.” He went to the closest archway. It ran straight and level as far as he could see. At regular intervals—every ten yards or so—a hand-size patch of the ceiling glowed pale green. “Huh. Elf-light.”

Tucker headed over to check one of the others. “So?”

“So Social Police helmets have built-in night vision. They don’t need elf-light. And these aren’t bright enough for regular people.”

“Ogrilloi,” Tucker said hollowly from the other arch.

“Yeah. We’re getting close.”

“Not what I meant. Um, the big nasty your playmates were waiting for—would it be coming from the direction of the gate?”

“Maybe. What do you have?”

“I think it’s the Smoke Hunt.”

He looked over Tucker’s shoulder. The hallway descended and widened as it went, fanning out in the far distance into what might have been some kind of large open chamber, and from what he could see there might have been firelight or torches, but mostly he was just looking at the giant crowd of bare-ass ogrilloi.

Every square inch was packed shoulder to shoulder and cock to butt-crack with naked ogrilloi. Just standing there. Those scarlet flames that cast no light flickered and played over them, and there were elf-lights here too, but there was no way to know if the ogrilloi down there needed them or not.

They all had their eyes closed.

And they weren’t ogrilloi so much as they were a thousand-plus identically dough-faced manikins—ogrillokins—like full-size clay figures still only half-shaped. “Put your weapon down.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“They’re not Smoke Hunters.” A tilt of the head. “Not yet.”

“Then what are they?”