Brother Death (24 page)

So, one had to ignore such things as shifting mountains and glowing fogs and proceed with determination to reach Sanctuary. Kifo had happened on it accidentally during his second crossing into the gods' land. His next visit had shown him that he could find it again. The method was simplicity itself: all roads led to Sanctuary. One merely had to pick a direction and go and eventually one would arrive. What could be easier?

Something gibbered and moaned as it flew past the troop, the sound of its tortured cry dopplering so close and loud that it must be within arm's reach. There was nothing to see, however. The sound of the invisible shrieker faded to silence. Several voices among the Few called upon the gods for protection.

Kifo smiled again. Where else would they be more protected than here?

Ahead, a brighter spot gleamed, a patch of whiter blue against the distant dimness. Ah. Sanctuary. If the Few had been impressed after the initial crossing, they were about to be astounded. He laughed yet again, and the sound seemed to reverberate as if they were in a narrow tunnel. It didn't matter. Sanctuary lay just ahead.

Bork felt the fear try to claim him and he fought it down. It was almost as dark as black paint in here, but not quite. The distorted light pen he still held gave off a faint glow through its tendrils. After a second he could see the tritium dial of his chronograph gleaming brightly under the base of his left spetsdod, and the tiny green diode on the power pack of the electronic device clutched too tightly in his hand. It was dark, but it was a normal kind of dark.

"Taz-"

"Right here. Let me get my belt light. . ."

The small flashlight flared on wide beam and the halogen lamp revealed what looked like a wall of pressed fiberboard twelve centimeters from Bork's nose. When he took a quick step back in reaction, he bumped into something real solid and real cold.

"Where the fuck-?" Taz began.

With his back against something that didn't seem like it was going to move, Bork lifted his right leg and put his foot against the fiberboard wall. He had a good angle and when he straightened his leg, the fiberboard split, shattered, and partially fell away. A couple more kicks and there was a hole big enough for Bork to step through.

Beyond the fiberboard wall was a dimly lit room. Bork stepped out into it, Taz right behind him. Before they could do more than look around, people started yelling.

"Don't move!" came a voice. "Police!"

Taz blinked, shook her head. "Damn, Saval, this is the impound room. It's half a klick away from the lab!"

The WC for the impound was more than a little upset. He very much wanted to know how the fuck she and Saval had gotten past a locked door and two guards into the evidence vault without tripping an alarm or being fired on. She didn't tell him. He was an old-timer, had been on the force for thirty-five years, but fortunately Taz outranked him. She gave him a story about some new top-secret penetration gear, a hush-hush variant of Reason's can opener, and promised to let him know what was going on as soon as she could.

When they were outside alone and heading for the lab, Taz said, "What is going on, Saval? You have any idea?"

"Well. We came back through one of the other slabs of Zonn wall. I dunno why, or how, but the stuff must be connected in some way."

"But we never moved. I mean, we went into that . . . place, turned around and came straight back through the same spot."

"Maybe we were a centimeter or two off," he said. "Maybe a centimeter in there translates to a kilometer out here. Or maybe it's a function of time and not space. I dunno. That tech, Scanner, he warned us it was a weird place."

"That's the fucking truth."

"I think we're gonna have to be real careful when we go back into the walls."

"The guys who chopped up all those people and broke Ruul's neck are in there. I'm going after them."

"I said, 'when,' Taz, not 'if.' "

"Listen, Saval, you don't have to do this-"

"Shut up, little sister. I have business to finish, too."

She nodded. Managed a grin. "Missel will probably be surprised to see us come through the lab door."

"Wait until he sees his light pen."

She smiled at that, too, but it was a sober smile. The light pen had been in the Zonn place for only a few hours and it had been changed more than a little.

What would happen to a person who wandered around in there for any kind of time? She wanted to catch the killers sure enough, but she didn't really have any desire to grow roots and stay there permanently. No, thank you. Probably be wise to keep moving, get your task done and come home fast.

Then again, a wise woman wouldn't be likely to go back to such a crazy place, did she have a choice.

Well, fuck it. She was a mover, not a thinker. Nobody had ever accused her of being too smart, why worry about it now?

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN

LIKE A PEARL lit from within, Sanctuary gleamed ahead, shimmery white and full of promise. Kifo strode through a field of sparks and fog toward the sacred place. And none too soon, either. The edges of his robe had begun to grow a kind of pale orange feathery mildew; his shoes were too hot upon his feet and the air grated metallically in his nose and throat and lungs. He could also feel the fear of the Few lessen as Sanctuary loomed closer. They knew the story, albeit only from dry lessons instilled by rote.

Now they saw the reality.

One of the Few screamed.

Kifo turned in time to see a blurry shadow sweep over the rear of the troop, a moving blot of inky red shot through with swirls of blue. The flitter-sized blob engulfed one of the Few-too fast for Kifo to catch even a glimpse of the face-and in a heartbeat spun away and up. The dark splotch vanished into the haze, taking with it the straggler.

Panic blossomed in the ranks of the few. Like mushrooms after a hard rain, the fear returned and the Few were but an instant away from a blind stampede when Kifo bellowed at them. "Hold!"

Years of obedience to their Unique stopped cold the frightened group.

"There is nothing to fear! That one"-he waved at the sky, realized he didn't know whether the person snatched was a man or a woman-"that one's faith slackened, even on the verge of Sanctuary! Thus was paid the price! If your faith is strong, you need not worry!"

There was a rumble among them, a prayer-filled walla. He understood their doubts. Who could know if their faith were strong enough? Would faith protect them? Was it so?

Well, such should be true, Kifo reasoned. It might be so. What was more important than the loss of one of them was that he maintained his control, his appearance of power and knowledge. The truth of it was that while he was certain the gods meant to elevate him into their ranks, he as yet did not know precisely how such a thing was to be done. Everything that took place in the Zonn realm had to be considered important, every act or lack thereof could be part of a test for him. Did he have to lose all of the Few along the path, well, so be it. They were not important, after all, merely part of his own unfolding. But until the moment when the gods saw fit to reveal their plan to him, Kifo felt it necessary to hold the flock in as much order as he could manage. It seemed the right thing to do.

"Follow me to Sanctuary," he commanded. "And know that the gods do not err in their actions!"

He kicked up more sparks as he turned back to face the goal. He was yet unable to see the pavilion clearly, but he had been there before, and such things as the dark splotch that took one of his people were not allowed therein.

Like frightened sheep, the Few followed him.

True, the gods did not err, but men could hardly understand the reasons gods did things, and the Zonn might choose to wipe the Few away as a sweaty man wipes his brow. Who could say? But a dog who kept a keen eye open might avoid an idle slap by a master who couldn't be bothered to stand and chase him.

Thus did Kifo strive to keep his eyes keen.

Missel regarded the thing that had been his light pen. It lay upon a carbonex work table under a denscris safety dome, illuminated by the table's lamps.

"It appears to be moving," Missel said. "Fascinating."

"Maybe it's about to give birth," Taz said. "Missel, about the other thing . . .

Without taking his gaze from the mutated light pen, Missel waved her question off: "No problem.

Everything is in the viral matrix; you'll have the duplicate in another hour and an half. Chee, would you look at that. The plastic is changing color, there, near the end . . ."

Taz couldn't help but wonder if Missel might not say the same thing were it his hand undergoing the metamorphosis. Scientists were strange beings.

She glanced at Saval. He shrugged, gestured toward the lab's door with a sideways nod.

She followed him outside. They stood in front of the thick observation window out of the lab tech's ken.

"What?"

"We need to pick up a few things."

"Such as?"

"Well, we didn't have any trouble moving at normal speed inside the wall, but you saw what happened to the spetsdod dart. Must be some kind of damping field for stuff past a certain velocity, makes projectile weapons useless. The gadget Missel made works, so we can probably use electrical or nervous spectrum weaponry. Shockstiks, hand wands, maybe."

"Unless something in there likes juice." She nodded toward the light pen at which the tech still stared.

"Maybe the light pen's power attracted whatever changed it into that. "

"Could be. Or maybe it was the plastic," Saval said. "If we take wands and they turn into tree roots, we'll toss them. There are a bunch of them and only two of us. We'll need some kind of edge. Unless you want to bring help."

"No. This is personal."

"What I figured. So, we'll get a couple of wands, knives, maybe staves or spears."

Taz chuckled. "Funny. Here we are at the peak of civilization, able to travel faster than light from world to world, and we're talking about hunting bad guys with knives and spears."

Saval nodded. "The place inside the wall is a new game and we don't know the rules yet. Best we try and cover as many bets as we can."

"Mmm. Let's go see if the police armorer can turn out some sticks for us. You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"We have a while before Missel's folks finish the dupe. What say we grab a quick lunch before we start packing gear?"

"Sounds good."

Pickle was just walking away from their table when the assassin came through the wall.

The human tide in the Owl was at the lowest ebb Bork had seen, though there were still quite a few people inside. Their table was near the south wall and the big man rippled through the west side ten meters away. It was eerie to watch, like an entcom special effect: the guy stepped out of the wall as if it were an upright tank of water; the material seemed to cling to him slightly with surface tension before it let him go. There might have been a soft pop! but Bork couldn't be sure given the background noise in the restaurant.

"Holy shit," Pickle said, stopping to stare at the apparition.

Bork couldn't make the shot unless he moved. A waiter and two patrons were partially between him and the hooded and robed figure, plus Pickle herself. Taz, her back to the assassin, saw something on Bork's face, started to turn to see and speak at the same time. "Saval . . . ?"

Bork shoved away from the table, moved to his left, brought his left spetsdod up. He'd give the guy a spray of AP rounds and see how he liked that. But he had to get a clear field of fire first. Wouldn't do any good to yell 'Down!' You did that in a room full of civilians without training and maybe a couple would flatten. The rest would just turn around and stare at you. Or worse, stand up and further block your field.

Time ran slow like it sometimes did when things got risky, thick as cold lube in a North Katoan winter.

The assassin saw him. Nothing like motion to attract the eye of a predator. Or prey.

Bork's spetsdod came up. It should be an easy shot, but you had to allow for the adrenaline surge. The Thing in the Cave would rather run than fight, so its gross moves got better when it was startled; good for speedy legs, bad for needlework-or precision shooting. Bork had practiced with the other matadors to compensate for the hormone rushes, but sometimes the epinephrine storms lashed harder than expected.

This man had beaten him before and the Thing in the Cave knew it. It didn't want to fight: Go, leave, now! Fuck shooting! Run!

Bork ignored the cry. His spetsdod came up, but too high. In what seemed a painfully slow motion, he dragged it back down. No! Not important. Run! Run fast!

The assassin leaped back into the wall.

A small sphere, about the size of a big man's clenched fist, fell to the floor where the assassin had been.

"Damn!" Bork jumped. Pickle, mired in the thick time, turned in slow motion toward him but she wasn't important. The customers were out of the way. The waiter twisting in the syrupy air . . .

Window. There was a window, to his rear and right side. Glass? Or plastic?

Pickle moved a hair. Into Bork's path. Taz was coming to her feet but he was already past her. The twisting waiter had dropped his tray at the sight of a man disappearing into a wall and the tray hung in the air, settling slowly, leaving two mugs of something hovering just above it as gravity called to them all: Come to the floor

Bork's attention was on the sphere. It hadn't bounced very high, couple centimeters, meant it was heavy.

Stressed plastic or metal shell, didn't matter which if it was what Bork thought it was.

He hardly even noticed Pickle when he ran over her; she vanished from his tunnel vision and if she made a sound it didn't stick, slid off him.

Almost there.

He dove, grabbed the ball, rolled, came up facing back the way he'd come, slammed into a table. Too much momentum carried him and the table another two meters and into the wall. The table shattered but that wasn't important; what was important was the heavy sphere in his hand. He thumped against the wall, managed to bend his neck forward enough so his head didn't connect when his back hit. It was a stunning collision, pieces of the table, plates, eating utensils flew about him in eccentric orbits but he was still up, still conscious, still able to move. He arched his back, hard, flexed his shoulders and scapulae, snapped away from the wall. Took a step, pulled his hand back, threw the heavy ball as hard as he could at the window. Felt the muscles of his belly knot with the effort as his throwing hand nearly touched the floor.