The Supernaturalist

  Stefan caught Mona gently by the shoulders. “It’s not what I want. But we’re beaten. We’re a bunch of kids. What can we do?”

  “Myishi is with us now,” whispered Mona. “We have the energy pulse and the Parabola.”

  “It doesn’t work. It’s never worked. It took me a long time to see it, but I see now.”

  “A pity about that Parabola,” said Cosmo thoughtfully, almost to himself.

  Mona turned from Stefan. “What do you mean, Cosmo?”

  “Something Professor Faustino said. The Parasites often feed on electrical energy. I bet if we found energy leaks, we’d find Parasites.” He rested his chin on one hand. “If only we had a bigger dish.”

  Mona ran to the nearest window, tearing back the heavy curtains. “Myishi has a pretty big dish,” she said, pointing to the stars. “One more shot, Stefan. One more try.”

  Stefan’s resignation cracked like a mud pack, revealing the old determination underneath. “Ditto,” he said. “Where’s my phone?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Ellen Faustino.

  Stefan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Professor Faustino, all I’m asking for is a data port on the Satellite. One plug-in, what can that hurt?”

  Faustino’s face was grim on the phone screen. “The Satellite is off-limits, Stefan, even to me. I’m only president of research. I couldn’t get a job scrubbing the floor on the Satellite.”

  The phone’s handset almost cracked in Stefan’s hand. “Fine, you run the scan. A concentration of energy leaks in the city center, that’s all I’m looking for.”

  Faustino consulted a digital diary on her desk. “That’s a much better idea. I can get a slot in a couple of months.”

  “A couple of months! Do you have any idea how many people will be sucked dry in a couple of months?”

  “I can’t help it,” protested Faustino, swiveling her digital diary so Stefan could see the screen. “Look at the clients we have waiting. Nike, Disney, Krom. The Satellite costs millions per uplink. Do you realize the advertising power of a single broadcast? There’s a five-year waiting list for Satellite time. A couple of months is the absolute earliest I can get in, and even then I’ll be calling in every favor I owe.”

  Stefan struggled to stay calm. “How am I supposed to deploy your energy pulse if I can’t locate the Parasites?”

  Faustino was unfazed. “Stefan, this entire operation is clandestine. Un-spec four does not exist. Neither does the modified energy pulse. Neither, for that matter, do you or your vigilante band. What do you want me to do? Go to Head Office with a story about spooky blue creatures that are scrubbing energy?”

  “No,” admitted Stefan, scowling into the phone’s screen. “I suppose not. But what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to find another way,” said Ellen Faustino.

  Stefan closed the handset. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will.”

  Booshka Region, past the blockade; Satellite City

  Mona steered the Pigmobile through the teeming life of Booshka. Technically she shouldn’t have been driving manually at all, but there wouldn’t be any police down here to check her license, or lack of it. The nighttime gangs had been replaced by throngs of ordinary peaceful people. In the pale blue daylight, life went on as it did all over the world. Whatever their circumstances, people still had to eat, live, and love.

  Stalls sprang up along the side of the road like magicians’ tables. African tailors rubbed elbows with Asian hackers and European shoemakers. Trade was brisk and haggling was lively.

  Cosmo watched the world go by from his seat in the Pigmobile. “It’s not a bad place to live.”

  “In the daytime,” said Stefan. “And will be a lot better if Professor Faustino can get her welfare grants back online.”

  Ditto was checking his chin in a small mirror. Hoping for some bristles. “Sure. Which is why we’re doing this behind her back.”

  “Professor Faustino is on the inside,” said Stefan. “She has to follow the rules; we don’t. If the Supernaturalists can take care of the Parasite problem, the Satellite stabilizes and the welfare grants will flow. Everybody’s happy.”

  “Especially Myishi,” said Ditto, pocketing the mirror. “I think it’s very nice of us to do their job for them, especially since they’ve been trying to kill us for years.”

  Mona yelled back from the driving seat. “Do you have any better ideas, Ditto? Do you?” She gave him a full five seconds to reply. “No? I thought not. You never do.”

  “I never do? It’s just healthy skepticism,” said the Bartoli baby. “We can’t all be sheep. This entire situation stinks. Suddenly we’re working for the corporation. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it much either,” said Stefan. “But Professor Faustino is my friend first, and corporation second. We can trust her.”

  “Are you sure? Would you bet all our lives on it?”

  “The only life I’m betting from now on is my own. Once we track the Parasites to their lair, I’ll be the one setting the energy pulse. From today on, you kids are computer jockeys.”

  Mona nearly crashed the mobile. “Kids? Who are you calling a kid? You’re only a couple of years older than us. If I’m old enough to run around on rooftops, I’m old enough to set energy pulses. I’m not here to watch things on a monitor.”

  “You will be involved, from a safe distance. And if you don’t like the new arrangement, stop the van and get out. I’m sure the Sweethearts would be really happy to welcome you back.”

  Mona jammed her foot on the accelerator. “You know something, Stefan? Sometimes you can be a real pig.”

  They drove for more than three hours until the Pigmobile was skirting Satellite City’s beltway. Next stop, the desert. Cosmo could see the end of the city and it fascinated him. There was an end to the city? For some reason, he had always imagined the entire city to be a giant prison. And even if you did leave, how did people survive out here in the countryside?

  This was not like the countryside you saw in old videos. There were no horses galloping in slow motion, and no swings hanging from the trees. In fact there weren’t many trees. Most plant life this close to the city had been killed off by chemical smog or factory overspill.

  Here, the people existed outside the Satellite’s footprint and free from its influences. Most of the countrysiders lived in small one-story dwellings cobbled together from whatever material was likely to stay upright for the longest time. To Cosmo the houses seemed wildly exotic. After a lifetime of pig iron, it was refreshing to see walls constructed from chunks of reinforced highway bridges, and roofs made from old billboards.

  Ditto shuddered. “This place gives me the creeps. You know they don’t have Satellite TV here? Some houses only have ten or fifteen illegal stations. What do they do all day?”

  “Stay alive,” said Stefan, pointing at a mountain of junk in the distance. “Over there, Mona. That’s where we’re going.”

  As they drew closer, Cosmo realized that the junk mountain was actually a fenced-in yard filled to overflowing with discarded rubbish from the city. Two armed guards stood in the shade of a covered tower, their weapons as ancient as everything they were guarding.

  Mona stopped the Pigmobile before decorated iron gates that had, in a previous life, been the entrance to a theme-park ride called Dino Doom.

  Stefan opened the side door, stepping into the heat and dust. There were two rifles trained on him from above.

  “You’d better keep on truckin’, kid,” said one of the guards, an emaciated specimen with no more than three teeth. “’Less you got sumfin’ worth tradin’. Never mind what the gate says, this ain’t no fun park.”

  “Shut up and listen,” said Stefan, with his usual tact. “I need to see Lincoln. Tell him it’s Bashkir. And if this gate is not open in two minutes, then I’m holding you responsible.”

  The guard thought about arguing, until Stefan glanced pointedly at his watch. Then he decided to go and get Lincoln
. If this tall youth wanted someone to be mad at, the guard would prefer that it wasn’t him. There was something about those piercing eyes, and the twisted scar stretching his mouth.

  The second guard spat after his workmate. “Run like a rabbit, chicken boy. You ain’t got the spine of a lug worm.” Obviously the man was fond of animal imagery.

  Stefan climbed back into the car. “I think we’re in.”

  “Must be your charming personality,” muttered Mona, still sore over the “stop the van and get out” comment.

  “Now, when we get in here,” Stefan went on, “I want everybody to be extremely careful. Did you ever see those movies about the Wild West, where gunfights get started over the least little thing?”

  Cosmo nodded.

  “Well the Junkyard is like that, except with real bullets. Ditto, you’re a kid until I say so.”

  Ditto groaned. “Aw, Stefan. I hate being a kid.”

  “We might need an ace up our sleeves. You’re it.”

  Considerably less than two minutes later the Dino gates swung open, manned on each side by one of the strange guards. Seeing them at close range, Cosmo realized that the men were much better seen at a distance.

  “Bring that sucker in, Mistuh Bashkeer. Park ’er in front of the lobby.”

  “Whooeee,” said the other. “You sure are one hog-ugly critter.”

  Cosmo didn’t know if the man was talking to the Pigmobile or his own reflection. Then again, he was in no position to sneer at other people. His own head was no oil painting since Ditto had patched it up, although at least now he had some stubble to cover the lumps on his skull.

  Mona steered through an assault course of automobile skeletons, parking in front of a porch constructed from rusting satellite dishes. The lobby, apparently.

  “Remember,” said Stefan to Ditto. “Act immature.”

  Mona laughed. “Act? Just be yourself, Ditto. Nobody will notice the difference.”

  The ugly twins escorted them through a curtain of nuts and bolts threaded onto copper wire. Inside was even dirtier than outside. Every inch of surface was coated with a pungent mixture of oil, dirt, and rust. Millions of rust mites flourished in the ceiling, their activities sending rust flakes fluttering down like robot moths.

  Behind a desk constructed from storage pallets sat a man, clearly at ease in the filth. His feet were propped on the desk, bare toes being licked by an obese ginger cat.

  “Nice cat,” noted Stefan. “What’s his name?”

  “Camouflage,” answered the man. “When this cat shuts his eyes, you couldn’t find him in here with a pack of bloodhounds.”

  Stefan swiped the man’s feet from the desk, sitting opposite him. The cat hissed, running along the man’s leg to his stomach.

  “I see you don’t believe in manners.”

  “Manners won’t buy you much in the Big Pig, or beyond it, Lincoln.”

  Lincoln’s face was gaunt, with bags under his eyes like melted flesh. He could have been any age and of any race, though his accent was decidedly upper class. He wore a three-piece pinstriped suit; unfortunately it was at least twenty years old. “You know my name, boy, but I don’t know who you are. You used the name of a friend of mine to get in here, but you certainly are not Dr. Aeriel Bashkir.”

  “I’m her son, Stefan. She told me about you.”

  Lincoln studied him for a moment. “Yes, you have her eyes. How is your mother?”

  Stefan dropped his gaze. “She died. Three years ago.”

  Lincoln was silent for several moments. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good woman.”

  “She was. From what she told me, you owe her a favor.”

  Lincoln laughed. His teeth were the same color as the rest of him. “Perhaps. But I certainly don’t owe you any favors, dear boy. Favors are nontransferrable.”

  Stefan put his elbows on the desk. “Lincoln, five years ago my mother traveled out of the city and took out your ruptured appendix. No other doctor in the city would have done that. While she was here, she saw a HALO going up. She told me all about it. We both know that you’re the one who has been sending up pirate HALOs for years, without any permits, safety or otherwise. One call from me and the Myishi privates would be cutting this place into cubes with space lasers. And the ugly twins here would be absolutely no help.”

  Lincoln was unimpressed. “You’ve met Floyd and Bruce. They’re my boys. I took them in off the street when they were barely out of nappies. I believe they were twenty-six at the time. Stupid as rocks, poor fellows, but they certainly can shoot. As a matter of fact they have big old bolt guns pointed at your head right now.’

  “Oh, really?” said Stefan. “Well, I’d advise them to look down.”

  “Look down?” said Floyd. “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to take our eyes offa the target, would you?”

  “You must think we were born last Tuesday,” added Bruce, his voice whistling slightly through the gaps in his teeth. “We got you all covered. You and the two juvies.”

  “What about the baby?” asked Stefan.

  Floyd snickered. “What about him? What’s he gonna do? Spit up all over us?”

  Floyd and Bruce felt two lightning rods being jammed painfully into their kneecaps. Ditto was grinning up at them. “You’re the one’s who’ll be spitting up, if I empty a full charge into you.”

  Lincoln had to laugh. “Bartoli?”

  Ditto nodded. “One of the last.”

  “Okay, dimwits,” said Lincoln. “Put away the bolt guns before the little one makes your hair curl.”

  Floyd and Bruce grudgingly did what they were told.

  “A genuine Bartoli,” said Lincoln, “what are your mutes?”

  Ditto scowled. “I prefer the term special talents.”

  “Mutations, special talents, whatever term you wish. What can you do?”

  “I’m the medic in our group.”

  “Healing hands. I’ve heard of that. Are you sensitive too?”

  “To what?”

  “The spirit world. The TV scientists say that Bartoli woke parts of the brain that have lain dormant for millennia.”

  “I know what the brainers say,” snapped Ditto with unusual ferocity. “No, I’m not sensitive. Good looks—that’s it.”

  Lincoln lay back in his threadbare chair. “It looks like you got the drop on me, Stefan. So let’s get down to business. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a High-Altitude Low-Orbit ship,” said Stefan bluntly.

  Lincoln laughed. Rust flakes fluttered from the creases in his face.

  “A HALO, just like that. No schmoozing first?”

  “I don’t have time for schmoozing. I need a HALO, now. Today.”

  “What would I be doing with a HALO? That would be illegal. I’d have public and private police trying to lock me up. Your mother must have been mistaken. A desert hallucination, perhaps.”

  Stefan brought his fist down on the desk. “My mother was a spaceship nut. It was her hobby. She used to bring me down to the Cape to watch the rockets take off. She knew every model ever made. She was not mistaken. You’re the space pirate the privates are all looking for.”

  “And if I am?” said Lincoln. “Not that I’m admitting anything, mind. Who else would clean up space? Who else would salvage all those junked satellites? In my humble opinion, whoever is sending up those rogue HALOs is doing Earth a favor. The world’s first cosmic trash man. The occasional pirate TV broadcast is a small price to pay for clean space.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you deserve a medal. Now, where’s the ship?”

  Lincoln’s face was suddenly deadly serious. “Why would I give a ship to you people? A bunch of children? You’re not old enough to drive that heap of junk outside, not to mention a HALO.”

  “You grow up quickly in the Big Pig,” retorted Stefan bitterly. “We’ve survived on our own for years. The only thing adults have done for us in the recent past is try to kill us. You can program the HALO from here. She’ll go up and back witho
ut us having to touch an instrument. All we want to do is be on board.”

  “You still haven’t told me why I would want to give you my ship, if I had one. What’s in it for me?”

  Stefan drew a computer panel wallet from inside his new overcoat. He laid it on the table.

  “And what is that?” asked Lincoln, trying to appear disinterested. “The latest 3D video game?”

  “No, Lincoln, it’s a piggyback panel. With a Lockheed Martin solar panel face and a two-million-gigabyte memory capacity. I acquired it recently from a friend.”

  Lincoln nudged the panel. “Piggyback panel. Oh, really. What’s on the memory?”

  “Nothing, at the moment. Plenty of memory there to run a pirate TV station.”

  Lincoln weighed the panel on his palm. “In theory. But you need a big dish to hook into.”

  “We have a dish. The biggest.”

  “Don’t kid a kidder, Stefan. Nobody gets near the Satellite without corporate access codes. You go within a mile without codes, and they blast you into space.”

  Stefan slid the panel inside his pocket. “You leave the codes to me. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Lincoln. I can hook you up with a panel on the Satellite. You’ll be broadcasting for months before they trace the panel.”

  Lincoln scratched a clean patch on his chin. “And all I have to do is?”

  “Give me the starter card for the HALO I know you have parked out back.”

  “Two million gigabytes, you say?”

  “All yours. I give you a linkup chip and you’re set.”

  Lincoln was sold, but he fought against it. “You know how much one of those chips costs, Stefan?”

  “About one tenth of what you’ll make from the independent TV companies.”

  “This could be all lies, Stefan. Maybe you just need my ship, and you don’t have any codes.”

  Stefan’s glare cut through the particle heavy air. “You have my word, Lincoln. I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  Lincoln waved his hands. “No need to get all morbid, swearing on graves. That kind of thing is bad form.”

  “Well, do we have a deal?”

  Lincoln stood, rust fell from his clothes like dry snakeskin. “Yes, young Bashkir. We have a deal.”