Landslayer's Law (34 page)

Disorientation lasted but an instant (he was, after all, upside down), before he let those clever new reflexes carry him a couple of feet further, then twist him sideways to emerge in the A-frame’s rafters. The rest was a piece of cake, and before he knew it, he was crouching on the thick (and rather tacky) shag carpet taking stock of Mystic Mountain’s portable two-room office-cum-showroom-cum-architecture lab. The front was clearly a reception-and-display area: richly but sparsely furnished, with a plethora of posters and brochures on the walls depicting other Mystic developments.

His goal, however, was in the back: the office proper. And fortunately the door wasn’t fully closed—a good thing too, because he’d just realized he hadn’t brought the scale.

A pair of leaps took him there, and his human aspect uttered a satisfied, silent “Bingo!”

Cables, cables, everywhere, and also a right nice fax,
he chanted to himself, amazed on one level at how playing stupid doggerel through his mind helped keep the human part of that mind ascendant. Which was a good thing, because there was a bloody lot of stuff in that room that made him mad as hell (never mind what it would’ve done to David)—and emotion was anathema to intellect. It was hard to keep your cool, though, when you were confronted with things like photographs of Sullivan Cove overlaid with corporate trademark graphics. Like maps of the place all over the wall, with color-coded push-pins stabbed through ’em. Like an incomplete but perfectly executed scale model of what had to be the marina. Like an official-looking checkbook protruding from underneath an expensive leather ledger. Like the bloody blueprints themselves.

It was an embarrassment of riches. And he had less than twenty minutes in which to ruin it.

Okay, first things first. He’d start with maximum damage, then work his way down to the peripheral stuff.

And that means you, Mr.…whatever brand you are. (Expensive,
is what they were…though neither of the machines bore any obvious logo.). And with that, Aikin checked to see if the computers were connected to a UPS (both were—smart, given the incessant thunderstorms, but a slight complication to his still-evolving plan), then leapt for the newest rich accessory and neatly flipped it OFF. That accomplished, he slipped around to the keyboard and took quick stock of his situation.

The machine was on but in SLEEP mode. Good. Now he wouldn’t have to fiddle around with passwords and such. It was also pretty stupid, he had to admit. Then again, he doubted Mystic’s pet architects expected what amounted to industrial sabotage to be effected in what they surely regarded as an ignorant little backwater town.
Trusting fools! Probably figured making a couple of backups was enough!
Which wasn’t getting anything accomplished. So…

Aikin studied the keyboard—difficult, given it was roughly twice his own size—but had little trouble turning on the monitor, a nice
big presentation type, worth about $2,000.
Even better!
It was a program he knew—already up and running. Obviously these folks used these machines for one purpose only. It was therefore short work to call up the main menu, determine which was the primary CAD program, move from there to what he presumed were the architecture files, then the project folders—and delete the lot. Piece of cake, actually—except for the fact that it took most of the force he could muster to mash the keys (squirrel arms were apparently about as strong as human fingers), and hitting the SHIFT key with a foot while stretching for others with his paws took a bit of ingenuity. Too, the screen seemed the size of a movie screen—from his point of view. But it worked pretty damned well, all things considered.

Except that it was just too easy. Until he recalled something he’d heard in class one time and promptly stashed in his “interesting information not to be acted upon” file. Something he’d never actually considered doing. Still…a man (or a squirrel) learned from experience. Had he been human, he would’ve grinned fiendishly. As it was his lips barely moved (though that certainly didn’t hold for the rest of him) as he hopped and stretched and skipped across the keyboard. Various prompts appeared, and then the one he wanted. FORMAT C:, he told the machine, and answered YES to the assorted queries as to whether that was what he
really
wanted to do.

And then it was simply a matter of watching in smug (if somewhat guilty) awe, as the main hard drive erased itself.

Trusting fools!
he thought again as he repeated the operation on the second machine. Teach them to underestimate mountaineers! Still, he didn’t quite trust his own efforts. Plus, who knew what sort of backups might be around? Therefore, he proceeded to first gnaw through every power cord in sight, eject all disks from the various drives, then chew the hell out of each one with his fine new incisors, before knocking it to the floor.

And then he found what was surely rainbow’s end indeed: a plastic box completely full of tapes. A squirrel wouldn’t know what to make of such things, but Aikin was rather more than your basic .22 fodder, and it was thus but a few seconds’ work to flip that container open, then thoroughly unwind, gnaw
and
scratch
and
excrete upon the entirety of its contents.

That accomplished, he chased the awful plastic taste from his mouth by chowing down on a good chunk of the top two sheets of the ledger, then clawing the rest for good measure. Ditto the checkbook and blueprints, which he also knocked to the floor beneath the computers.

Finally, he played Godzilla vs. Tokyo with that nice little balsa wood model—tasted better than paper, anyway.

And just as he was departing, he noted something that made him doubt even his own remarkable luck.

The computers rested on a narrow counter set against a wall, adjoining the larger one that held the ledger and the thoroughly splintered model. But the model-builder’s supplies were conveniently stored nearby: on metal shelves hung from the wall above the various components. And those supplies included a pair of squeeze bottles of Elmer’s glue along with a number of plastic jars of acrylic enamel.

Teeth made tidy little holes near the bottom of each container, and a tad of main force-plus-dexterity, with more than a little gravity thrown in, put all those viscous substances to leaking directly atop those much-abused key-boards—and the main drive units. He even tipped a jar of Insignia Red into the fax machine, whence it dripped neatly onto the scattered blueprints like thick electronic gore. With any luck the combination would gum up enough of the works to cause Mystic Mountain a good couple of days delay—replacing equipment and programs, if nothing else. And while they might still have backups—well, any delay was better than none.

Yeah, Mystic Mountain Properties would be in for a surprise come morning.

And, as best he could tell, it was time to get going. A quick scamper brought him back into the front room, and a glance at the clock there (not as easy to read as he’d hoped, courtesy of that weird-ass nonbinocular vision) told him he was in fact dead on time.

It was more than a little disconcerting running straight up the A-frame’s vertical front wall, but that was easier than trying to manage the slanting sides. Even better was the fact that there was a ventilator screen up in the point he hadn’t noticed before, which made getting out far less problematical than getting in. And since he was now accustomed to those strong new choppers and knew that any damage done them here, short of actually breaking one, would be repaired when he shifted back to human form, he made short work of chewing through the thin metal mesh. And was outside a minute later.

Not a minute too soon either, because the set of headlights that had just blazed into view from where the driver had been circling a small town’s worth of blocks belonged to a certain black Chevy S-10 with heavily tinted windows. It slowed as it approached the Tastee Freeze but didn’t turn into the lot. Aikin plotted an intercept course across Mystic’s skimpy yard and onto the sidewalk beyond, but deliberately held off on the final run for home and let the S-10 pace him. That was also part of the plan. Though there was obviously no evidence of human involvement in the Mystic Mountain vandalism (He’d been careful to leave a nice selection of rodent tracks, and how many squirrels had fingerprints on file anyway?) there was still an element of risk in letting his truck be seen cruising by a crime scene twice in one evening when he was supposed to be a hundred miles to the south. On the other hand, it wasn’t really safe for a squirrel to go frisking down a semi-rural sidewall by his toothsome lonesome late at night. The solution was for Calvin to tail him half a block, thereby affording a modicum of insurance, then let him in.

That block was ending right now.

Calvin stopped for the red light there, and Aikin availed himself of that additional run of good fortune to scramble up the running board and through the passenger door Calvin reached across the seat to open. As soon as Aikin made landfall in the right-hand bucket, he commenced digging through his scrambled clothes, questing for the scale.

“Lookin’ for this?” Calvin teased, just as the light changed again, and the truck moved on. Something vitreously bright dangled from the fingers of his right hand.

Aikin’s heart rate doubled, and before he could stop himself, he’d leapt up and sunk those fine strong incisors of his into Calvin’s nearside pinky.

“Son of a bitch!” Calvin yipped, and dropped the scale to the floorboards. Aikin grabbed it there, drew blood from both front paws, remembered how pissed he was about Cal’s bullshitting and having to surrender his truck—and with those emotions as guide, swiftly reverted to short, compact, dark-haired normality. Before they’d reached the middle of the block, he was fumbling back into his britches.

“Mission accomplished?” Calvin inquired casually, reaching into his jacket.

Aikin nodded smugly, too full of himself to continue being pissed. “Mission accomplished.”

Calvin merely grunted—and tossed something small and round in Aikin’s direction.

It was a year-old walnut.

Chapter XVIII: When the Ship Comes In

(the Seas Between—no time)

David’s fingers had barely brushed the heavy gold filigree handle of the half-open cabin door when he heard a hard, dull thump, followed by a sharp hiss from Fionchadd. He froze, trapped in mental stasis, wondering whether to proceed as he’d intended, which was to warn the rest of his comrades that their oh-so heroic embassy to the Powersmiths had just been aborted before they’d even made landfall in Annwyn, or to pivot back around and determine what could possibly make someone as jaded as Fionchadd mac Ailill gasp in what had sounded, the more he considered it, like alarm.

One affected his fate potentially more than the other, and so he turned.

And saw nothing that could’ve prompted that reaction: only the prow of the dragonship riding high on a dark Faery ocean, with a line of barely paler cliffs bobbing up and down beyond, beneath ominous red-gray clouds. “Finn, what—?” he demanded, his tread fearfully loud on the broad oak boards as he pounded back to the prow.

As David had been himself bare seconds earlier, Fionchadd likewise seemed locked in uncertainty. He’d clearly intended to hasten to the tiller in the stern, so as to ease the ship around and flee—retreat rather say—back down the Track toward the Hole that had so recently coughed them forth. But something had caught his attention in mid-stride, and so he remained in place: torso facing half-aft, head twisted left, to peer back over his shoulder.

“What—?” David repeated. But then he saw.

An arrow protruded from the arc of rail heretofore obscured by the bulk of the Faery’s body: a slim white bolt that had pinned Fionchadd’s slender hand firmly to the dark, unyielding wood. David ducked instinctively, even as he crossed those last few yards, fearing that arrow might be vanguard of others—he knew better than to underrate Faery archers. Yet even as he risked one quick glance over the side—toward that troublesome fleet that had just forced them to alter their plans—Fionchadd vented an agonized groan and tumbled to the deck, the bolt now free, but torn halfway through his palm.

“Oh, God, Finno,
no
!”
David wailed, as he scooted around beside his injured friend. He reached reflexively for the arrow—then paused, lest he do more damage. The tiller then? Could he steer this craft back into the Hole? Another peek over the rail gave neither hope nor comfort. The fleet was still out there, making no move toward them, yet showing no sign of preparing to depart. On the other hand, somebody over there had just shot this ship’s captain. And if Lugh’s folks knew who else crewed this vessel—like a bunch of inept humans—they’d have no reason for haste: could reel them in at their leisure.

A final check showed someone hauling at what David supposed were anchor lines; still, no one seemed inclined to rush. Christ, only one person was even looking their way! David could make him out but barely: a tiny shape with an even more minuscule bow.

A moan from Fionchadd jerked him back to that far more imminent matter. “Finno…?”

“The…arrow,” the Faery rasped, face tight with pain. “Help me…pull it out!”

“I’ll have to break it!” David warned, as he reached for the thin white shaft. It looked like bone, he noted absently. And the bloody head seemed one with the rest of it—as, now he checked more closely, did the fletching.

Fionchadd’s other hand flashed up to stop David’s, even as he brushed the bolt. “No!”

“But—”

The Faery’s eyes were huge, though whether with pain, fear, or possibly some other emotion, David couldn’t determine.

“It’ll hurt more,” David cautioned.

“I accept the pain, but…this is important.”

“Whatever you say.” And with that, David knelt down across Fionchadd’s wrist just above the injured hand, and thus braced; took the shaft in both fists—and pulled.

The Faery’s already pale face turned paler yet, and David actually heard Fionchadd’s teeth grind together as that arrow slid slowly through flesh. Raw bone grated against what
looked
like wrought bone, and blood spurted around that juncture in tentative gouts. It didn’t smell like human blood, though; it was far too…sweet.