The Bloodlight Chronicles: Reconciliation (5 page)

She still wore her hiking boots and blue denim and carried a packsack of dirty clothes. As her bus dwindled away in the distance, she scanned the empty street for danger. It was a commercial district, and the compound had once been a warehouse for an auto parts manufacturer. There was always a guard on the flat-top roof, a watcher on the tower. Always, but not today.

She carried no weapon but had been trained for close combat. She could grab a knife from the kitchen and investigate her quarters, see what might be left of her life. Rix might have scrawled a note or a map or some other clue. The plate glass door was unlocked. No sound. No movement. She edged inside.

There was normally a token presence in the reception area, and kids playing in a daycare area nearby, but not today. She could hear a tap dripping in the darkness, and she smelled marijuana. Drawers had been pulled out of a desk and books lay strewn on the floor. She crept further into the building and checked the cafeteria, where a grey light filtered in from a row of windows along the high ceiling to show nothing but scattered papers and refuse.

“Drop the pack, lady, and step away.”

Mia froze at the voice behind her. She unslung her burden and let it drop.

“Now step back,” the voice insisted. “Keep your hands up where I can see 'em.” The young voice carried a street-level surety that she dared not ignore. Some punk. She took three steps forward as she slowly raised her hands and turned on her toes.

“What happened?” she asked as she eyed her captor, just a kid with a knife, just a white-trash punk with garish tattoos. She could drop him in a blink.

“Dunno. Place was vacant when we got here. Anything nice in the bag?”

“Nothing.”

He stepped forward and tapped it with his foot. He kept his knife, a hunting blade serrated at the base, trained on her.

Mia balanced her chi carefully, waiting for an opening. She began an incremental rhythm of preparation, an inner swaying dance. Her muscles began to tingle with anticipation.

“Who are you guys?” she asked conversationally.

“Lords of Death. This is our turf.” He took another step closer.

“I've heard the name,” she lied. “You're big.”

He relaxed a fraction, just enough. She focused her chi and caught him square in the testicles with the toe of her boot.

He cried out and coughed once as he fell in a fetal position, and she knocked his lights out with a quick kick to the temple. She picked up his knife and hefted her pack. She held her breath and listened for noise, for any warning in the gloom. She smelled excrement as the young punk fouled himself. She checked his neck and found a steady pulse.

Mia hurried into the kitchen and found an orgy of waste and a stench of decay like a thick blanket. She gathered a few cans of vegetables and a bag of pasta from the mess and stuffed her pack. There would be little else left of value in the compound. White-trash druggies.

Moving down dark hallways with the meagre glow of her handheld, she walked quickly and quietly to her quarters, found it empty, ransacked. She checked Rix's room. No note, no explanation. His launch computer was gone, probably in a pawn shop by now. She let her chi sing as she pumped her adrenaline up a notch and prowled warily from room to room, looking for clues. A crow of voices warned her of gang members hooting it up in a commons room, but she didn't bother to investigate. The Lords of Death were not her enemy. She was at war with a nebulous foe, a legitimate evil.

She found her stash in the basement behind a loose concrete block in the wall. Some fake
ID
, enough cash for a free-zone hovel. She could handle herself. She cursed her bad luck, the incredible cloud of dark karma that seemed to follow her everywhere. Her community was in shambles, sold for the market price of eternity, her son gone without a trace. There was nothing left for Zak to return to now. She would have to find her husband, back at the north sanctuary or somewhere else. She needed him now more than ever.

A negative blood test landed Rix quickly out on the street. He plodded down concrete steps with his duffel bag over his shoulder and looked back at the low-slung building. An abandoned cigarette factory had been converted into a vampire den, an unregistered blood donor clinic. A sham. Sickness roiled inside him.

He felt powerless and weak standing on the curb looking back in disgust. What if his parents were in there? What could he possibly do to save them? The
ETO
prevented any serious inquiries from public agencies. A smokescreen of money protected the vampires. They were worse than the drug lords of lore, the infamous chemical cartels of South America. Now there was life on the market. Life and death.

Rix noticed a motorcycle just down the road. A young woman sat on it, holding a red helmet in her arm, gazing at him with obvious intent. She was stunningly beautiful and seemed to recognize him. Could this be the doom and gloom girl? He sidled up to her.

“You must be Rix,” she said.

Rix smiled. She looked like a dream with limp brown hair hanging just to her shoulder and pert lips like pillows. She was dressed in motorcycle leathers and racing boots. He nodded.

“I'm Niko,” she said and held a slim forearm out for a handshake.

“Nice,” Rix said, still nodding, trying desperately to get his groove on as he shook her hand.

“Want to go for a ride?” she asked and lurched her shoulder forward with invitation.

“Where to?”

“My place?”

“Wow.”

She smiled her platonic intentions with a roll of her eyes. “I've got a launch couch. You look like you could use a hit. Clear the head, you know.”

Rix finally noticed her V-net plug dangling like an earring, but it didn't make him feel any better. This was moving way too fast. “You're taking a big chance,” he said. “This place is awash in webcams. They're taking your mug shot down pixel by pixel.”

She made an impish face at him, admiring his quick reconnaissance but unconcerned. “I'm not Eternal. Neither are you. These jokers have a one-track mind. They're simpletons with guns.” She motioned again with her shoulder to get on.

There was no second helmet and scant inches behind her, but Rix climbed aboard with gathering paranoia. Niko hovered above him as she kicked the bike to life, a motocross racer with knobby tires and skeletal frame, a jumping bike grimy with dust. Rix admired the view despite deep misgivings.

“Hang on, cousin,” she yelled back at him as she gunned the revs, and Rix slipped his arms around her waist as she kicked the clutch out from under him. The front tire popped up with his extra weight in back, but Niko stood on the pegs and forced the handlebars back down. She accelerated quickly, clipping through the gears with smooth precision. She weaved through the traffic and leaned into every corner, cutting the inside track close to the curb to trim the microseconds just for the fun of it.

Niko took him to a street-level condo in the inner suburbs, two-bedroom, one-bath, half-garage. The street seemed quiet, windows intact, the grass combed of debris. Niko had plants in her living room, healthy green plants that had grown in one place for a considerable time. Rix gazed at them in wonder as Niko pointed out basic amenities. He had never stayed in one place long enough to own a thing that lived.

“Look, I've got to grab a shower,” she told him. “There's food in the fridge, maybe a beer if you're old enough. Don't plug up till I show you my protocols.”

Rix nodded. “Cool.”

She looked at him as though there might be something else to say, then decided against it and turned. In a few moments Rix heard a blast of hot water coming from down the hall.

Rix made a sandwich of cheese and mustard and pretended it was meat. He found a can of beer and popped the tab. He sipped it and grimaced. It tasted like crap, but he decided to make a show of it in order to impress his hostess. She couldn't be much older than him, maybe two or three years. He might have a chance with her. He sipped at his beer while he scoped out the condo.

A young nurse presented a plate of food to Zakariah on an antiseptic white tray. Her blond bangs were cut in a razor sharp line along her eyebrows. She seemed vaguely familiar.

“Any more red medicine?” he asked hopefully.

“Are you in pain, sir?”

She surveyed his head closely.

Zakariah fingered the bandages wrapped above his ears. “No. Do you know who I am?”

“You're the new runner,” the nurse stated by rote. “You're supposed to be the best,” she added doubtfully.

“Is this the
ERI
?”

The nurse eyed him askance. She shook her head and sighed.

Zakariah tested dry, broken lips with his tongue. “Okay,” he drawled. “How long since my surgery?”

“Six days,” she answered coolly, “. . . sir.”

Zakariah winced. Such a long recovery to beta state indicated deep modifications and a corporate price tag he could not possibly afford.

“Have I done anything to offend you?” he asked.

“You called me a gargoyle,” she said with false petulance.

“I'm sorry.” Zakariah quirked his lips in apology. “You're an angel of mercy and lovely to behold. I'm sane now, okay?”

The nurse grinned at his performance. “If you say so.”

“Is this all I get to eat?” A glass of orange juice, a plastic cup of red jam, and two pieces of toast stared up at him.

“I can make you something else.” Her smile seemed hopeful, a painted pink crescent on a pale background.

“Great. Pancakes and sausage?”

“Really?”

“Sure. And let the Director know the new runner's ready for action.”

The nurse's eyes widened with interest.

Zakariah flashed a candid smile. “So tell me,” he added, “before you go, do they keep the Eternals locked up, or are they free to roam the facility?”

The nurse stiffened. “We're free to roam the facility, sir.”

Zakariah stared, momentarily nonplussed. “You're Eternal?”

“We all help out as best we can. It's a research institute, not a jail.”

“Great,” he said quickly, considering the obvious. He tried another smile to calm troubled waters. “Never mind. You can call me Zak. I'm not really a sir.”

“You can call me Marjy, sir. I'll be back shortly with your breakfast.”

It took two more days to get an appointment with the Director. In the meantime the medics wouldn't let him anywhere near V-space. He was all wired up with no place to play, and he ached for Main Street like a bandit.

His diet improved considerably, and he resumed his daily exercise regimen. His strength returned. Marjy took the bandages off his head and hung a brand new V-net plug on his earring like a trophy. It itched there waiting for a chance to run.

An armed escort of three men took Zakariah from the medical building by electric car through a parkland of grass and trees and winding causeways. He saw a few people strolling leisurely and noticed a schoolyard full of kids at play. The guided tour through Shangri-La. He shivered with anxiety.

Outside the
ERI
office tower, a group of protestors marched along the sidewalk with colourful flags and posters—a young crowd,
nouveau riche
, representing a burgeoning and verbal middle class. One banner read: “Blood for Everyone!” Another small placard said: “No Blood for Guns.” His escort took him past the disturbance to a quiet side door. Zakariah carefully noted the entry protocol, a simple card scanner, a weak and outdated system.

They took an elevator up to the penthouse level. The guard at the top, a monolith in a blue security uniform, pointed down the hall with casual ease. “Only door on the right, sir. I'll be here when you return.”

Zakariah sauntered away, instinctively checking for escape routes, air ducts, skylights. He knocked on the door and wiped his palms on his thighs.

“Come in, Mr. Davis.”

Zakariah stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

A woman looked up from the reception desk and stared at him appraisingly.

Zakariah gaped in alarm. Helena Sharp, unmarried white Caucasian, five-ten,
140
pounds. Years of training prevented a panic reaction. His heartbeat remained steady, but he knew he had crossed over into another realm. “I'm here to see the Director,” he said calmly.

“Hips flared out like a lampshade, huh?” Helena Sharp stood up and walked from behind her desk. She was wearing a black business skirtsuit with white ruffled blouse, skin-tone hose, and black pumps. She sat on her desk and crossed her legs, and Zakariah noted a glinting V-net plug at her ear.

He grimaced. His very thoughts had been monitored. Some new tech infiltration. Go with the flow. Store all data. “I may have exaggerated somewhat,” he offered. “I was under a bit of pressure at the time.”

Helena nodded. “You performed wonderfully under the circumstances. You eluded all tracers, cracked my encryption in seconds, accessed all my private financial files and bank records. I think you could have cleared me out in a matter of minutes if I hadn't pulled the plug.”

“I was being very cautious,” Zakariah said, unsure of his footing.

“Indeed?”

“I didn't know it was a game.”

“It wasn't.”

Zakariah surveyed her carefully. He could see age around her eyes, but her sandy brown hair was youthful and lustrous, parted at the side and wavy across her brow. Her lips were robust, laugh lines muted.

“I'm sorry. I know this is a bit difficult for you—”

“I'm here to see the Director,” Zakariah interrupted.

“Mr. Davis, please sit down.” Helena gestured with her palm to an easy chair beside her desk. “I
am
the Director.”

She took his arm and pointed him toward the chair. She poured him a glass of nutrient water from a carafe on her desk and handed it to him. Her hands were slender, fingers long and tapered. No rings.