Paul shook his head. He knew these things could never be trusted. "Just let the boy go."
"Not until you give us what's in your hand." Butterball made Gally convulse again. Horrified, Paul held out the harp. Both faces, chrome and candlewax, turned greedily toward it.
The room shuddered. For a moment Paul thought the massive machinery had begun to break down. Then, as the walls themselves seemed to shred, he had a sudden and greater fear.
The Old Man. . . ?
But Nickelplate and Butterball were also staring, mouths open, as the very planes of geometric form began to slide apart around them. Paul was still standing with his hand outstretched, and Nickelplate abruptly took an impossibly long stride toward him, shining claw scrabbling for the harp. Gally, who had slumped to the floor, curled his arms around Nickelplate's shiny legs and the creature stumbled and fell with a sound of metal scraping on stone.
The room and Paul and everything shuddered again, then fell apart and curled in on itself.
He was frozen in midair above the sky once more, and the Great Canal and red desert again arched above his head—but the air was now empty where Gally had hung beside him. Where Gally had touched his outstretched fingers, his own hand was now closed in a fist.
Even as his bedeviled mind tried to grasp the abrupt transition from the giant's gearhouse back to this perfect stasis, the world surged into life. Colors came unstuck and ran. Solids became air and the air became water, swallowing Paul with a great, cold slurp.
He floundered, his lungs full to bursting but beginning to ache. The wet blackness around him was chill and heavy. He could make no sense of up or down. He saw a dim glow, a yellow that might be sunlight, and heaved toward it, wriggling like an eel. For a moment the light surrounded him, then he was in blackness again, but this time the cold was murderous. He saw light again, a cooler blue, and fought toward it. As he rose he could see the slender tips of dark trees and gray, clouded sky. Then his hand struck and bounced back. He kicked, thrusting his face up toward the light, scrabbling with his fingers, but something solid lay between him and the air, prisoning him in the freezing water.
Ice! He smashed at it with his fists, but could not make even a crack. His lungs were filled with burning coals, his head with smothering shadows.
Drowning. Somewhere, somehow, and never to know why.
The knowledge will die with me. About the grail. The meaningless thought flitted through his deepening personal darkness like a shiny fish.
The water was sucking all heat from his body. He could not feel his legs. He pressed his face up against the ice, praying for a pocket of air, but a tiny breath brought him only more wet coldness. It was useless to fight any longer. He opened his mouth to take in the water that would end his pain, then paused for a last instant to try to focus on the glimpse of sky. Something dark covered the hole, and in that same moment the ice and the sky and the clouds crashed down at him, shoving him back and startling the air out of his straining body. He gasped reflexively and water rushed in, filling him, choking him, obliterating him.
A curtain wavered, a fluttering screen of orange and yellow. He tried to focus on it but could not. No matter how intently he stared, it would not take on resolution, but remained soft and without texture. He closed his eyes, resting for a moment, then opened them and tried again.
He could sense something touching him, but it was an oddly detached feeling, as though his body were impossibly long and the ministrations were being performed on a very distant section. He wondered if he had been . . . he could not remember the word, but found instead an image of a hospital room, the smell of alcohol, a sharp small pain like an insect sting.
Anesthetized. But why would they. . . ? He had been. . . .
The river. He tried to sit up, but could not. The delicate ministrations, so soft, so distant, continued. He focused his eyes again and realized at last that he was staring at the shifting flames of a fire. His head seemed to be connected to his body by only a few nerves: he could feel something beneath him, and could tell that the surface was rough and uncomfortable, but his body was numb and the discomfort was purely speculative. He tried to speak, but could only make a faint gasping noise.
As if summoned, a face floated into view, perpendicular to his-line of sight. It was bearded and heavy-browed. The brown eyes deep in the shadowed sockets were round as an owl's.
"You are cold," the face said, the voice deep and calm. "Dying cold. We will warm you." The face slid out of his sight once more.
Paul collected what thoughts he could. He had survived again, so far anyway. He remembered his name and everything that had returned to him as he knelt before the rose and chalice banner. But where he had been was still missing from his mind, and where he was now had become a fresh mystery.
He tried to sit up and could not, but managed to roll onto his side. Feeling was beginning to return to his body, sprays of needle-pricklings up and down his legs that were rapidly growing worse—he was alternately racked by shivers and spasms of pain. At least he could finally see beyond the curtain of fire, though it took a moment before he could make sense of what was before him.
The one who had spoken and half a dozen other bearded, shadow-eyed men were crouched in a semicircle around the fire. A roof of stone stretched above them, but they were not in a cave so much as a deep overhang of rock in the side of a hill. Beyond the opening lay a world of almost perfect whiteness, a world of deep snow that stretched all the way to a line of saw-toothed mountains in the distance. At the base of the hillside, perhaps a half-mile away, he could see the thin gray shape of the frozen river and the black hole out of which these men had pulled him.
He looked down. The one who had spoken was cutting Paul's wet clothes away with a piece of black stone that had been chipped into the shape of a leaf. He was powerfully built, with broad hands and flat fingers. His own clothing was a ragtag assortment of animal skins, tied in place with cords of sinew.
Neanderthals, Paul thought. They're cave men, and this is the Ice Age or something. It's like a bloody museum exhibit, except I'm living in it. Fifty thousand years away from anything I know. A horrible ache coursed through him. He was alive, but somehow he had lost his life, his real life, and was apparently doomed to wander permanently through some horrible labyrinth without ever knowing why. Tears welled up in his eyes and ran down his cheeks. Even the shivering and the pain in his awakening nerves fell away, overmatched by the anguish of total loss.
Gally is gone. Vaala is gone. My family, my world, everything gone.
He rolled his face against the stone, brought up one hand to hide himself from the eyes of the staring, bearded men, and wept.
By the time the stone knife tore through the last piece of his shirt, Paul could sit up. He dragged himself a few inches nearer to the fire. Another of his rescuers handed him a great fur-covered skin that stank of fat and smoke, and he gratefully wrapped himself in it. His shivering gradually subsided to a faint but continuous tremor.
The one with the knife picked up Paul's ruined clothing, which was stiff with ice, and set the pile to one side with a certain anxious care. As he did, something clicked against the stone and rolled free, glinting. Paul stared, then picked it up, turning it over in his hand, watching firelight spark from the golden facets.
"We saw you in the water," the knife wielder said. "We thought you were an animal, but Birdcatcher saw you were not an animal. We pulled you from the water."
Paul closed his fingers around the gemlike object. It warmed, then a gentle voice filled the cavern, making him jump.
"If you have found this, then you have escaped," it said Paul looked around, afraid his rescuers would be terrified, but they were still looking at him with the same slightly worried reserve. After a moment, he realized they could not hear the voice, that it spoke to him alone. "Know this," it said. "You were a prisoner. You are not in the world in which you were born. Nothing around you is true, and yet the things you see can hurt you or kill you
. You are free, but you will be pursued, and I can help you only in your dreams. You must remain un-captured until you find the others I am sending. They will look for you on the river. They will know you if you tell them the golden harp has spoken to you."
The voice went silent. When Paul opened his hand, the shining thing was gone.
"Are you a spirit of the river?" the knife wielder asked. "Birdcatcher thinks you are a drowned man returned from the land of the dead."
"The land of the dead?" Paul let his head sink to his chest He felt exhaustion pressing on him, heavy as the stony hillside above them. His sudden laughter had a cracked sound, and the men shied back, grunting and whispering. More tears made his vision blur. "Land of the dead. That sounds about right."
CHAPTER 37
Johnny's Twist
NETFEED/SPORTS: TMX Makes Olympic "Goodwill Gesture"
(visual: TMX/Olympic flag rippling over Athenaeum, Bucharest)
VO: Telemorphix, Inc. has made what it calls a "goodwill gesture" to resolve its dispute with the International Olympic Committee and the government of the Wallachian Republic. Instead of "The Telemorphix Bucharest Olympic Games," as the corporation had initially insisted the event be known, the official name will be "The Bucharest Olympic Games, Sponsored by Telemorphix."
(visual: TMX VPPR, Natasja Sissensen)
SISSENSEN: "We respect the Olympic tradition of peaceful compromise, and we feel we've held out a major olive branch. However, the IOC should remember that nobody ever gets something for nothing. Not that I've heard about anyway."
The moon was only a fingernail sliver above the black Bahía de Barbacoas. The island, hedged by orange spotlights, glowed more brightly than anything in the sky. Dread smiled, It was a nest full of jeweled eggs, and he was the predator. He would take those lights in his jaws and crush them into darkness.
Dread brought up the Exsultate Jubilate, a piece of ancient music that throbbed like electricity and rang with joyful transcendence. He regretted using a piece of preprogrammed music, but he had too many things to do, and tonight there would be no time to build his own soundtrack as he acted out his starring role. Mozart would do well enough.
He fingered his t-jack, wolfishly happy to be off the fiberlink leash. He lowered his hands to his knees, intensely aware of the resistant neoprene of his suit and the tiny grains of sand adhering to his palms, then closed his eyes so he could see the important things.
"Track one, report."
A window containing a view of the choppy water from high above appeared against the blackness. "Listo," declared Track One's foreman. "Ready."
"Track two."
. . . Another window, filled by a dim shape which he recognized as a reflection-resistant boat only because he had purchased it himself. Before it, a group of shadowy figures lying prone on the sand. One of the figures moved slightly: night-goggles glinted. "Ready, Jefe."
"Track three."
. . . A stack of equipment against the bad-paint wall of a rented apartment, each box finished in the irritating matte-black that was experiencing a revival among trendy wareheads. Nothing else.
What the hell. . . ?
The pause lasted several seconds before a shaved head appeared and Celestino's voice reverberated in the bones of Dread's skull. "I was making a last-second adjustment, Jefe. I am now ready."
Having a last-second-terror piss, more likely. Dread sent a closed sidebar call to the room next to the gear tab. A woman's face appeared, round and pale beneath flaming red hair.
"Dulcy, what's up? Is he going to get it done?"
"He's an idiot, but he's competent, if you know what I mean. I'm here. Go ahead and light it up."
He was glad he had brought her in. Dulcinea Anwin was expensive, but not without reason. She was smart and efficient and could have walked right through the Battle of Waterloo without blinking. For a brief moment, he wondered what kind of quarry she'd make. An interesting thought.
"Track Four."
The observation center balcony, which he had occupied himself only a few hours ago, appeared against his closed eyelids. This man, unlike Celestino, was waiting for the call. "Ready to spike."
Dread nodded, although neither the heads in the data windows or the dozen other men with him on the dark beach could see his face. He opened his eyes and summoned up the site map, allowing it to spread itself in a neon grid on top of the real Isla del Santuario looming just a few kilometers away. Perfect. Everything in place.
Action.
He brought up the Exsultate, and for a moment he was alone in the Caribbean night with the moon, the water, and the soprano's silvery voice.
"Track Four—spike it"
The man in the beach house keyed up a security code, then spoke a word into his throat mike. At this signal, Dread's contact at ENT-Inravisión injected the program he had been supplied into the Cartagena telecom net, a simple—although criminal—action for which the employee would receive Cr.S. fifteen thousand and an offshore bank account to go with it.
The code sought out and connected with an unobtrusive resident parasite in the Isla de Santuario house system, a lurker which had been deposited for the sum of forty thousand by a disaffected employee of the previous security company during her last night on the job. Acting in concert, the two created a temporary data tap into the island's information system. Either the system itself or human oversight would be bound to spot the tap within ten minutes or so, but Dread did not need any longer than that.
"This is Four. Spike is in."
The Mozart lifted him. Pleasure ran through him like cool fire, but he kept his elation to himself.
"Good. Track Three, start pumping."
Celestino bobbed his head. "My pleasure, Jefe." The gear man closed his eyes and swirled his fingers in a complicated pattern as he began to make the input/output connections.
Dread kept his voice calm. "Give me a link and arrays as soon as you have them." He was developing what might be an irrational hatred of this poofting ex-military idiot. That was almost as bad as being too trusting.
He closed his eyes again and watched the seconds tick off on the time display. Except for Celestino conducting his invisible orchestra of data, seeming to Dread's jaundiced eye to mock the sublimity of the Exsultate, the other windows were static, awaiting his orders. He took a moment to enjoy the sensation. On the rare occasions when they spoke about their work, some of the others in his very small field of expertise referred to what they did as "art." Dread thought that was self-aggrandizing bullshit. It was just work, although at times like this it was exciting, satisfying, challenging work. But nothing this orderly and preplanned could be called art.
Now the chase—that was art. It was art of the moment, art of opportunity, art of courage and terror and the blind razoring edge of things. There was no comparison between the two. One was a job, the other was sex. You could be good at your job, and proud of it, but no one would ever mistake the best of one for the transcendence of the other.
Celestino was in the bones of his ears again. "The pumping station is up and running, Jefe. Do you want a line into the security net?"
"Of course I bloody well do. Jesus. Track One, report."
Track One's window showed more black water, this time from higher up. "Fifteen kilometers away and closing."
"Stand by for my call,"
A moment more and the music began to swell toward crescendo. An array of tiny windows blinked on at the periphery of his vision.
"Track Three, which one's the broadcasting channel?"
"Second from the left," Celestino answered. "Currently quiet."
Dread brought it up and checked, not because he thought the gear man was that incompetent, but because he was in that singular, high-flying and godlike mode—he wanted every spark, every falling leaf, at his fingertips and under his control. As Celestino had said, there was only silence on the channel.
"Track One, go."
The silence lasted for a few more moments. Then, he
heard the crackle of a radio in his ear. To make sure, he shut off the volume of his own line to Track One, but he could still hear it coming in over the Isla del Santuario's security channel. He was listening with the target's own ears.
"Mayday! Santuario, can you hear me!" There was a brief lag between the supposed pilot's Spanish and Dread's system's translation, but he was already pleased—under a professionally macho veneer, the actor sounded quite believably panicky. The Beinhas had made a good choice. "Santuario, can you read me? This is XA1339 out of Sincelejo. Mayday. Can you hear me?"
"This is Santuario, XA1339. We have you on radar. You are too close. Please turn east and move out of our exclusion zone."
Dread nodded. Polite, but fast and firm. The island's new security firm was worth the money.
"We have lost our tail rotor. Santuario, can you hear me? We have lost our tail rotor. Requesting permission to land."
The pause was only a brief one. "Not possible. This is an exclusion zone, approved under the UN Aviation Act. Suggest you try for Cartagena, either the civil or heliport. It's only about five kilometers."
The captain's scream of rage was most convincing. Dread could not help laughing. "You bastards! I'm going down! I can't make Cartagena! I have four passengers and two crew, and I can barely keep this thing in the air."
The Isla del Santuario continued not to live up to its name. "I apologize, XA1339, but that is against my express orders, repeat, against my express orders. Suggest again you try for Cartagena. If you attempt to land here, we will be forced to treat you as an attacking force. Do you copy?"
The pilot's voice, when it came again, was flat and bitter. The loud noises that squelched some of his words sounded quite distinctly like a turboprop helicopter shaking itself apart. "I can't fight . . . damn rotor . . . can't any longer. We're going down. I'll try not . . . crash on your precious island. I hope . . . rot in hell."