Back From the Undead (17 page)

But apparently now I’ve been here long enough to qualify—from illegal alien to landed immigrant, magic-wise. “So what do we do? Show it my passport? ‘Hi, Jace Valchek. I’m here on business, not sure how long I’m staying, and I’m not bringing any fruits, nuts, or currency worth over ten thousand dollars with me.’”

“Actually, that’s not far off. You’ve integrated pretty well into this reality, so we need to reverse that a little bit. Bring up your outsider vibe.”

“How?”

“I’ve got an idea. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He leaves his laptop on the bed and jogs out of the room. A minute later he’s back, with his forensics kit in his hand. He sets it down on the bed, opens it, and pulls out a small, transparent bag with a scrap of pink cloth in it.

“What’s that?”

“A piece of what you were wearing when you crossed the dimensional boundary.”

Which was an oversize T-shirt sporting a picture of a panda, and nothing else. After I threw up on it and passed out, I woke up in a hospital bed and never thought about that shirt again. “
You
have it?”

Eisfanger looks uncomfortable. “Well, yes. It might seem mundane to you, but it
is
an artifact of another reality. We studied it purely for research reasons.”

“And what did it tell you? Kmart sells a nice cotton blend in extra-large sizes?” My eyes narrow. “And why do you have a scrap of it with you, anyway?”

“It was in case you disappeared. I could use the psychic traces on the shirt to help pinpoint your location.”

I guess that makes sense. “Well, look at that. It worked. Here I am.”

He pulls the scrap out, selects a small pair of surgical scissors, and starts cutting the cloth into strips. “That’s the problem. You’re here, and the spell senses that. What we’re going to do is use this cloth as a focus for transdimensional energy, and infuse your own aura with it. It wouldn’t fool an actual shaman, but it might be enough to deflect the spell.”

I nod. “Change my scent, throw it off the trail. Yeah, that might work. But—”

“What?”

“Tell me that piece came from the part of the shirt I
didn’t
vomit on.”

Eisfanger looks apologetic. “Sorry. This kind of thing works best with a maximum infusion of extradimensional material.”

“Even if it’s semi-digested french fries marinated in tequila? Don’t answer that.”

He’s finished cutting the cloth into strips, and now he’s braiding them together. “I’m weaving a simple radiant enchantment into this. All you have to do is tie it around your wrist.”

“Huh. Well, what do you know. Where I come from, we call that a friendship bracelet.” I lean over and take a sniff, then wrinkle my nose. “Though ours tend to be more colorful and less fragrant.”

“The smell will fade—to your nose, anyway.”

I sigh. “Thanks, Damon. Gee, maybe after this we could braid each other’s hair and talk about boys.”

He looks about as confused as he usually does when I’m trying to be funny, so I just pat him on the shoulder. “Never mind. I appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

He finishes, ties it around my wrist, and performs a short ritual. I feel a little twinge of nausea, which tells me it must be working. Once again, my body is informing me it’s in a place it doesn’t belong and never will. I tell Eisfanger good night and my body to shut up; it’s always been terrible at important decisions, anyway. Before he leaves I let him know about my appointment with the corporate head of Hemo so he’s up to speed.

It’s almost 3
AM
by now, so I have a shower—taking care not to get the bracelet wet, though I don’t know if that makes any difference—get dressed, and go knock on Charlie’s door. He tells me he’ll be out in a minute and sounds as if he wasn’t even asleep, though that’s misleading; Charlie doesn’t so much wake up as shift from inert to alert. He’s also infuriatingly quick at getting ready, not needing to shower or shave or tend to any other tedious biological habits.

I grab a fast Danish to go and coffee from the hotel restaurant—one nice thing about Thropirelem, it’s not hard to find places open all night. Charlie’s car is back from the auto shop with new glass, and he drives while I talk, eat, and suck back caffeine.

“So that’s the rundown on Hemo,” I say between bites. “No idea what, if any, connection they have to the pire disappearances.”

“Other than Stoker’s word.”

“Yeah. Vague accusations backed by no evidence. I’m just about done with that, Charlie. I’m glad we shut down that blood farm, but unless I get some genuine proof that pire kids are vanishing—and soon—we’re out of here. Stoker can clean up his own messes.”

“I figured. Maybe we should hit the streets, ask around ourselves. Might get better results than bracing a CEO.”

“Good idea. I just wish I knew where to start.”

“At the top. And the bottom. Then apply pressure in both directions.”

I grin around a mouthful of Danish. “Mr. Aleph, I like the way you think. It beats the hell out of the way I’ve been thinking, anyway—or not thinking, as the case may be.” I tell him about my middle-of-the-night panic attack and Eisfanger’s fix.

Charlie grunts. “I always said that damn thing was more trouble than it’s worth. And aren’t you almost out of bullets, too?”

“I’ve got a box back in Seattle—but I’m down to six rounds here. After that, I’m going to have to rely on Eisfanger. Again.”

“You really think he can duplicate that formula?”

“Sure. I mean, it should be simple—he just has to…”

I frown. My mind is filled to bursting with nothing at all. What was I just thinking about, again? “Oh, no…”

“What?”

“The bullets. They have this stuff in them that makes them
go
. And I—” I pound on the dash with a fist. “Damn it! Now I can’t even remember what it’s called! Goonpower? Funchowder? Happy Bullet Flying Snuff?”

“Gunpowder,” Charlie says. “Calm down.”

“Gunpowder! That’s it!” I scrabble in my pocket for a pen. “Got to write it down. Can’t forget.” I find an old receipt and a pen and scribble the word in large block letters. “This is bad, Charlie. Eisfanger’s bracelet isn’t working.”

“Just breathe, Jace. What’s the full name of your weapon?”

“A Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan.”

“How does it work?”

“Like a camera. Point and shoot.”

“And what happens when you use it?”

“It makes large, messy holes in things I’m angry at.” I take a deep breath. “Whoooo. Okay, so I haven’t completely lost it. I can still
use
the damn thing.”

“Absolutely.” Charlie pauses. “For another six shots, anyway.”

“Just drive, sunshine.”

*   *   *

The corporate headquarters of the Hemo company is in Yaletown, an upscale community of condos and apartment clusters on the shores of False Creek. The building is a sleek, mirrored monolith forty-five stories tall. We show our credentials to the guard at the entrance to the underground lot, receive passes, and park. The elevator takes us up, close to the top, and the doors open on a large foyer that’s all black glass and chrome. An Asian receptionist who looks like she’s slumming from her day job as a supermodel gives us a professional smile from behind her sleek, ultra-futuristic, and completely transparent desk. I can see that she’s wearing a miniskirt, two-inch stilettos, and pink underwear. God, I hope that’s underwear.

“Hello,” she says. “Ms. Valchek? Mr. Mizagi is expecting you.” She indicates we should go left with a graceful gesture of one immaculately manicured hand.

We do. The walls are tiled in glossy black stone with inset Chinese ideograms in gold leaf. Our shoes clack loudly on the polished cherrywood floor.

The door, a dark brown slab of intricately carved teak that probably cost more than my car, swings open silently as we approach. A handsome pire in his apparent forties, dressed in a conservative salaryman’s black suit, stands in the doorway. He bows, enough to be polite but not deferential, and motions us inside.

The room is large and mostly empty. A large desk of the same teak is framed by a wall of glass that overlooks False Creek, with an excellent view of the two bridges and the ocean beyond. The walls are adorned with various certificates, mostly scientific doctorates and awards. One corner is dominated by an immense jade sculpture of a Chinese dragon curled around a sphere. No, not a sphere; a globe.

“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Mizagi,” I say. “I have a few questions.”

“Not at all,” he says. There’s a long, black leather couch along one wall and he motions for us to sit.

I don’t, though. I’m staring at his hand.

And at the gold-and-jade ring on his finger.

ELEVEN

I decide to stay on my feet. Charlie, as always, follows my lead.

“That’s a nice ring,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”

Whatever he was expecting me to ask, that wasn’t it. His eyes go blank as he comes up with an acceptable half-truth. “A gift, from an old colleague. To congratulate me on my promotion.”

I smile. He’s an embellisher. I
love
embellishers. They just can’t leave well enough alone; they’re convinced that unnecessary details added to a lie are like embroidery on a jacket, and that the prettier the lie, the more believable it is. The phrase
Give someone enough rope and they’ll hang themselves
was created for embellishers, and with a little encouragement they’ll weave a lie so big and intricate that pretty soon they’ll be dangling from it themselves like a novice spider stuck in his own web.

(I probably should have stuck to one metaphor instead of mixing thread, rope, and webbing, but hey—once you start embellishing, it’s hard to stop…)

“Your promotion here?” I ask innocently.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Hmmm. Half-truth, I think. Just a little hesitation beforehand and a qualifier tacked on the end.

You have to keep the pace going with an embellisher or they’ll try to change the subject, veer away from the lie. I quickly ask, “Where were you before this?”

“Japan. If you—”

“Is the ring Japanese?”

“Yes, it is. Very old. I was honored to have it bequeathed to me.”

“From a colleague, you said. Your superior?”

“I—yes.”

“I have contacts in Japan. What’s his name?”

Mizagi stares at me and says nothing for a full second. Deer-in-the-headlights time. An innocent question, but if the gift was from someone in the Yakuza heiarchy, he doesn’t want to disclose it. He needs a moment to come up with another name to give me, and when he finally does I know he’s lying. “His name is Kamoto. Hondo Kamoto.”

The lie is meaningless trivia, but it’s enough to rattle him. A good start. “Mr. Kamoto, yes. I know him. I’ll make sure to pass along your regards when I talk to him next.”

Meeting his pointless lie with one of my own confuses him further. Now he’s worried I’m going to verify what he’s said, and it’ll prove to be false. Already, in the back of his brain, paranoid fantasies about being caught and exposed are playing out. He doesn’t have time to pay conscious attention to them, but they’ll slowly grow in the background, destroying his confidence and raising his anxiety.

“Ah. Are you sure it’s the same—”

“I was wondering about what you do here.” I interrupt him smoothly, politely, as if he hasn’t spoken at all.

He blinks, then grabs the opportunity like a starving man reaching for a drumstick. “Of course, of course. Our primary business when we began was hemovore supply, but we’ve branched out considerably since then. We have multinational interests and many different projects in development.”

“Such as?”

“Real estate, banking, import–export, ranching … I can’t list them all off the top of my head. But the area we’re most excited about is TASS. I’m personally overseeing it.” He gives me a self-important smile, the most honest reaction I’ve gotten from him yet.

“What’s it stand for?”

“Technology Assisted Sorcerous Simulations.”

“Sounds very high-tech.”

“Oh, it is, it is! Our equipment costs are sky-high and so are the salaries I pay my programmers, but everything we have is bleeding-edge and top of the line. Considering what we’re trying to accomplish, it has to be.”

I hide the frown that’s trying to escape. I was expecting him to bluff me, try to conceal what he’s spending on computer R&D, but he seems almost pathetically eager to talk about it—the reaction of a geek who’s intensely proud of what he’s doing and oblivious to anyone else’s lack of interest.

I, however,
am
interested, and show it by leaning forward ever so slightly, wetting my lips, and widening my eyes. Subtle cues that’ll reinforce his ego and prompt more discussion. “You must be trying to accomplish something intriguing.”

He beams. “Oh, we are. Normally I’d keep this under wraps, but I’ve been told it’s all right for me to show you. In your
official
capacity, of course.”

Gretch must have leaned on him, or maybe whoever pulls his strings did. One thing’s for sure—the chief executive officer of a multinational corporation shouldn’t have to be “told” what is or isn’t okay to do with his own pet project. His role is clearly that of figurehead, with
scapegoat
standing in the wings and rehearsing its lines.

“Okay,” I say. “Then show me.”

*   *   *

The lab is on the thirty-third floor. Half the room is filled with stacks of computing towers, row after row of them, what’s called a server farm. The other half holds desks with more mundane workstations perched on them, and there’s an immense flatscreen monitor covering one wall that looks like they stole it from a drive-in on another planet. Various techs in white lab coats study monitors, tap away at keyboards, or murmur to one another in small, serious-looking clusters. A working environment, populated by professionals. Mizagi bustles in like an excited dad at bring-your-child-to-the-office day. “This is our nerve center,” he announces proudly. “What we are doing here has never been attempted before.”

“And what,” I ask, “is that exactly?”

“We are building
shrinespace
.”