Dreamwalker

  At last they reached their destination. A man was waiting for them there, dressed in the livery of an umbra mina. The skinny man nodded his head slightly in respect. The wolf, out of respect, did not eat him.

  “He’s waiting for you,” the Shadow said. He opened a pair of heavy wooden doors with the symbols of a hundred worlds emblazoned on them, and ushered them inside.

  The chamber beyond the doors was immense, with a vast open space in its center. The audience chambers of the umbrae majae were always like that. Visitors generally wanted to keep space between them and the scent of death.

  At the far end of the room the Guildmaster of Shadows waited. The skinny man walked toward him, heedless of the ghostly voices that whispered on all sides. The wolf’s hackles rose and it growled a bit more loudly, but it stayed by his side.

  The Shadowlord waited until the skinny man approached within normal speaking distance. It was something few men would do voluntarily “I’m told you have news for me.”

  The skinny man took two pieces of folded paper from his pocket and handed them over. The Shadow opened them and read.

  “Jessica. Jessica Drake.” He looked at his visitor. “This is the matter from Terra Colonna? The changeling problem?”

  “Aye, Master Virilian.”

  His eyes narrowed. “This is the girl you supposedly killed?”

  “The girl the Greys tried to kill,” the skinny man corrected testily. “If I’d done the job she’d be dead.”

  “So instead she is … where?”

  He indicated the notes in the Shadowlord’s hand. “The letters they left behind suggest they were headed toward the Gate. Three empty trolleys have been found on our side. So logic suggests they came over with the last set of transfers.”

  “Indeed.” The Shadow’s displeasure was an ice-edged razor. “The Greys’ security is unimpressive.”

  “So it would seem, Your Lordship.” He paused. “They offered me a bribe not to report this.”

  “Of course they did. Of course they did.” The Shadow looked down at the letters again; his expression was thoughtful. “And you took the bribe and promised them secrecy. How fortunate, then, that I discovered the truth by other means.”

  The skinny man bowed his head. “You are a wise and insightful man, Your Lordship.”

  “I have loyal servants. That is every bit as important as wisdom.” He indicated the letters. “You said there were three trolleys found. I see only two notes. Who was on the third?”

  “We don’t know that yet, Your Lordship. Probably another changeling. There’s evidence some of them were working together right before the Cleansing began.”

  “Yesss …” The word ended in a cold hiss. “A Cleansing that should have begun long ago. The Greys will pay for the delay.”

  The skinny man said nothing.

  “You say they came across on the gurneys. Does this mean you have their scent?”

  The skinny man hesitated. “Regretfully, Your Lordship, no. By the time I was informed about the situation the gurneys had been cleaned, and new bodies placed on them. The scents we need could no longer be isolated.” The corner of his mouth twitched; a faint note of scorn crept into his voice. “No doubt the Greys were concerned that if their error was discovered it might distract you from more important concerns. They are very loyal and hardworking creatures, Your Lordship.”

  “Indeed,” the Shadow said dryly. “I must remember to praise them as they deserve.”

  The skinny man’s smile bared teeth that had been filed to sharp points, making him seem as feral as the wolf by his side. “There are other ways to hunt, Your Lordship.”

  The Shadow nodded sharply. “Then do so. Track down these invaders, kill them, and bring me back the bodies so I can personally verify their deaths. It shouldn’t be too hard a task. They’re primitive creatures from an unenlightened world, and they lack the knowledge they need to survive here, much less hide themselves so well that that the Guild of Soulriders can’t find them.”

  The skinny man’s eyebrow raised slightly. “I thought you needed the girl for something.”

  “We have her brother. He’s the one that matters.” The Shadowlord waved a hand dismissively. “Kill her, kill any changelings who are with her, kill anyone who tries to protect them. You have my full sanction.”

  “You don’t think the Lord Governor will have issue with that?”

  The Shadow scowled. “No mere politician would dare contest my orders. Not when the prosperity of his city depends upon the commerce that flows through my Gate.” He nodded sharply toward the door. “Go. Now. Bring me news. And bodies.”

  The skinny man bowed his head deeply. “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “Meanwhile …” The Shadow’s expression darkened. Given what it had looked like to begin with, the result was uniquely disquieting. “I will deal with the Greys,” he promised.

  16

  BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS

  VIRGINIA PRIME

  WE DECIDED TO KEEP TO THE WOODS, though that meant climbing up and down some hills along the way. We all agreed that we didn’t want to come out into the open until there were more people around, at which point it would be harder for observers in the looming citadel to pick us out. But really, I think that we just didn’t want to walk to where Route 340 was supposed to be, and find out it wasn’t there. We all had this visceral need to pretend things were normal for as long as we could, and staying away from familiar landmarks helped us do that.

  At one point we came to a narrow stream, and we all bathed. Not in the normal sense of the word but full immersion, clothes and all. We figured we were better off looking like drowned rats than covered in flaking mud. We ate some more energy bars and continued on. Soon the slope grew much steeper, and the going became more difficult. Devon brought out his cached maps and assured us that this ridge was the last major obstacle before we reached Luray. Once we got to the top, we should have a good view of the city, he said. So we climbed with newfound energy.

  But when we finally reached the crest, gasping for breath from the last steep bit of climbing, we looked out over the valley and … well, like I said, this wasn’t our world.

  Apparently Luray was so expansive here that it had extended civic tendrils up and down the Shenandoah Valley, swallowing up all the peaceful little towns nearby, turning them into tightly packed suburbs. From our hillside perch we could see the heart of the city to the south of us, and it looked as crowded and congested as any urban jungle, its narrow, twisting streets running like rat burrows between looming walls of brick and concrete. There were a few green islands here and there in the urban sea, great mansions with trees and grassy lawns surrounding them, with walls or tall fences to protect them from the rest of the city. One had a slender tower several stories high, with an observation deck running around the top. From it, one would be able to see most of the city. The streets surrounding each mansion radiated outward like the spokes of a spider’s web, with wealthier residences spaced along them at neat and perfect intervals … until those streets collided with the pattern radiating from some other mansion, and the whole pattern devolved into chaos.

  I wondered if the urban planners responsible for this place had helped L’Enfant design Washington DC.

  On the outskirts of town the houses thinned out, and wherever a rising slope rendered the ground so inhospitable that only the poor would live there, I saw shantytowns, crowded with shacks precariously constructed from cast-off wood and bits of rusted metal. I’d seen such things in movies, of course, but usually in a Third World setting. Never had I stood this close to so much poverty.

  Nothing in the view looked so drastically unfamiliar that it should have made my skin crawl, and yet crawl it did. There was something wrong here; I sensed it viscerally but couldn’t identify the cause. Something made the place seem utterly alien to me, despite the fact that many of its streets looked so mundane that they could have been set down in Manassas without drawing notice. Devon was the one who final
ly gave it a name.

  “There are no cars,” he said quietly.

  I realized with a start that he was right. There were houses, shopping plazas, parks, and even playgrounds, all so very familiar in form … but nowhere was there a single car, or truck, or gas station, or even a paved road with lines down the center. I did see a railroad track running north-south, right where Route 340 should have been, and there were boats on the river, albeit small ones. So it wasn’t like there were no transportation vehicles. Cars were the only thing missing. I shook my head, unable to make sense of it all.

  Then Rita gasped and pointed skyward. I shielded my eyes against the sun and followed her gesture to where a bullet-shaped silver object was edging its way over the mountain ridge west of the city. It was coming in low over the trees and seemed to be headed for a tower on the far side of the river.

  “Is that a blimp?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a zeppelin,” Devon offered.

  “Jesus.” Rita shook her head. “This place is seriously screwy.”

  Understatement of the day.

  We began to climb carefully down the steep, rocky slope. Along the way we had to surrender our view of the city as the trees closed over our heads, but it was worth it to have cover again. Soon enough we would be out in the open, and I was already feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  About halfway down the hillside we came to a sudden steep drop, twenty feet of sheer rock that stretched in both directions as far as the eye could see. We started looking for the best way to hike down and were so focused on that task that it took us a few minutes to realize there was some kind of encampment at the base.

  Twenty, maybe thirty, ramshackle shelters had been jury-rigged from tree branches, ragged blankets, and trash. It took no great insight to recognize it as a transient camp for the homeless; the architecture of despair didn’t differ much from world to world. And though I recognized what the camp was, it felt, once more, strangely alien. I squinted as I tried to make out enough detail to figure out why.

  And suddenly it came to me.

  There was no plastic. No strips of tarp had been used to rain-proof the tents, no sheets of corrugated roofing had served as construction materials, no plastic bottles had even been used to haul water to the site. Even the piles of trash at one end of the camp had no plastic in them. Not even those ubiquitous six-pack holders you’re supposed to slice open so wildlife can’t get their heads stuck in the holes. Nothing.

  Suddenly a small figure emerged from one of the tents. Startled, we all froze, praying that he hadn’t seen us. He was small and dark and hunched over, and at first glance I wasn’t even sure he was human. At first he seemed wary, even afraid, but when he saw there was no immediate danger nearby he straightened up to his full height, and I realized that he was indeed human … assuming your definition of that word is a bit flexible.

  He wasn’t much taller than Tommy, and the combination of narrow shoulders and a thick torso gave him an ungainly aspect. Everything about him seemed just slightly off: arms too long, skin too hairy, feet not arched quite right. His toes dug into the ground as he walked in that odd way they do when you’re trying to hold a thong sandal in place, making his gait awkward. As for his face, I realized that I’d seen the type before, though not on a living person. Jutting brows, arched cheekbones, heavy jaw … it was hard to deny what that all added up to. Or accept that a world so similar to mine would have such a creature walking around in it.

  Rita whispered, “Planet of the Apes, anyone?”

  “Early hominid,” Devon whispered back. “The kind that died out hundreds of thousands of years ago.” He paused, then said with less certainty, “At least that’s what it looks like.”

  Whatever species the man was, his large, protruding ears had evidently caught wind of our conversation. Fear flared in his eyes as he scanned the landscape anxiously, searching for its source. We ducked low behind a fallen tree as he looked our way, and stayed down until we heard him moving around again. Then we heard even more movement coming from the camp, and we peeked gingerly over the top of the tree trunk to see what was happening about.

  Several other hominids had joined the first one. They were all of the same body type, though some had more human-looking features than others. Their clothing was simple: either a sleeveless shift of some heavy natural fabric, or else a shirt or dress of more complicated construction, with its sleeves torn off. The loose garments hid all the body parts I would normally have used to determine gender, so it was hard to pick out the men from the women, other than by size. Nobody was wearing anything akin to pants. Or shoes, for that matter.

  I was about to turn to Devon and risk another whispered comment when suddenly there was a loud cracking sound from downhill. The hominids froze like deer in headlights. The primitive fear in their eyes was a terrible thing to witness. They started running. Not in any organized way, as in running to or from something in particular. Raw animal panic had taken over, and they simply ran. You could smell fear in the air. But it was too late for them to flee.

  A moment before there had been no other people on the mountainside; now, suddenly, there were men on all sides of the camp. Three teams of soldiers in mottled green uniforms—clearly some kind of camouflage—moved in from the east, west, and south, leaving only our steep escarpment unaccounted for. Several of the hominids actually tried to scramble up the cliff in sheer panic, but by the time they managed to find good handholds the soldiers were upon them, and they pulled them back with enough force to send their bodies reeling to the ground. I heard a sickening thud as one of the hominids hit his forehead on a rock, and a trickle of blood seeped out from beneath his hair as he lay still upon the dirt.

  Some of the soldiers had drawn sabers, but the majority were carrying a weapon I’d never seen before. It looked like a crossbow, but rigged to fire small spheres instead of bolts. I watched as one man fired at a couple of the fleeing hominids. Halfway to its target the sphere broke apart in mid-air, dividing up into slices that shot out in all directions. As the slices fell to the ground the hominids fell also, and they began to thrash desperately, like rabbits in a snare. It took me a few seconds to realize that a fine net had entangled them.

  I felt a cold sickness growing in the pit of my stomach as I realized what was happening.

  Very few of the hominids tried to fight back. Maybe they felt it was a lost cause. Those who did try were ruthlessly cut down. They had no weapons and no defense other than flight, so killing them was easy. At one point the scene got so bloody that I had to look away. Devon put an arm around me and drew me close to him, letting me bury my face in his chest. I could feel him trembling deep inside, but his expression was steady, and his arm around me was strong and comforting. Always the brave one.

  And then, as quickly as the raid had begun, it was over. The hominids trapped in the nets were untangled and brought together in the center of camp, where thick steel collars were locked around their necks. Each collar was connected to a heavy chain, and you didn’t have to be a professor of American History to recognize what was going on.

  As the bulk of the soldiers started to lead the long chain of captives down the mountainside, you could see just how defeated the small hominids were. Their lanky arms hung low about their legs as their backs bowed in defeat, and they were so submissive in aspect—so spiritually broken—that the leather whip one of the soldiers carried hardly had to be used at all. Meanwhile a few soldiers who had remained behind gathered up all the hominids’ abandoned possessions. Blankets, food, clothing, and whatever pitiful tools or mementos they might once have treasured: all went into the central fire pit, covered over with handfuls of dry leaves and clumps of dead grass. And the bodies that had fallen in battle were thrown on top of all that, like they were just more pieces of garbage. Then one of the soldiers started walking around the fire pit, lighting matches one by one and throwing them onto the pile. Some of them landed on clumps of dried vegetation, and fire spread quickly from there.
Within minutes the pit was filled with roaring flames, and the sickening smell of burning wool and roasting flesh enveloped us along with the smoke. Eyes tearing, we had no option but to keep our heads low and try not to cough; we didn’t dare leave our cover to try to get out of the way.

  After a while the fire died down. The soldiers prodded it a few last times, then kicked some dirt over the glowing ashes and left. Tendrils of smoke were still rising from the center of the mound, but even they died down as the final embers slowly turned to ash.

  With shaking hands we took bottles of water and tried to wash the taste of ash and burning flesh out of our mouths. Which is when my stomach decided it had finally had enough, and I leaned over the edge of the escarpment and vomited. Afterward, I just lay there, drained, my body draped over the dead tree, too exhausted by emotion even to cry.

  “We need to wait here for a while.” Devon’s voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from far away. “We need to give them time to put distance between us.”

  No one felt like arguing with him.

  “Why does this stuff scare me more than the undead guy?” I whispered hoarsely. “More than the gate, and the aliens, all of it …”

  “Because none of that connected to you emotionally,” Rita said. “It all felt like a fantasy. A dream. This—this was real. People used to do this in our world. In some places, they still do. Our own ancestors probably—”

  She stopped herself suddenly and glanced at Devon. For the first time since meeting him I was aware of the color of his skin as something more than pigmentation, and I didn’t know quite how to deal with that. My ancestors had been among the huddled masses yearning to be free, for whom America had been a precious dream, a place of hope. While for Devon’s ancestors the journey had been the end of freedom.

  I took his hand, and I held it, and I know from the way he squeezed my fingers back that it was the right gesture at the right moment.

  We gave the soldiers enough time to march their line of slaves down the mountainside, and then some more time than that, just to be sure—after which, we rose unsteadily and started moving downhill again.