Stranger Souls Read online

  On her immediate left, Nadja could see the huge maw that opened into the rock. This was the "public" entrance to the lair, and it was extremely well protected by the best magical and technological security that existed.

  At least that's what Nadja had been led to believe. But she had also been led to believe that Dunkelzahn was invulnerable. And that assumption had been false. Dunkelzahn was dead.

  There's still a chance he's alive, Nadja reminded herself, even though she didn't really believe he'd survived. She didn't want to give up hope, but everything she remembered about the blast, every detail indicated that the dragon had been assassinated. And if he was alive, where had he gone? He'd never been out of contact with her for longer than a day since she'd met him that fateful evening in Paris.

  She still remembered his human form as he stood in the center of a small crowd, discussing Shifting Vienna, one of Alone's paintings. His boyish face and hands, his ancient eyes. He looked up at her, into her with his mind, and a clean-lined smile touched his flawless face. Just before he excused himself from the others to come over her.

  There had been an electricity between them. He touched part of her soul that she'd let no one come near; too many had tried in years gone by. Too many had been shut out since her parents had died. It was as if she'd been reserving that part of her spirit for Dunkelzahn. It wasn't sexual. It wasn't romantic. It was simple connection, friendship on such a visceral, natural level that there was no denying it.

  Nadja fought off the memory. She wiped her eyes, cursing herself for weakness at a time when she needed to be strong. If only I could talk to Ryan, she thought. He'll have some answers about what happened.

  But Ryan had not made contact from wherever he was, even though Nadja knew he would try as soon as he learned of Dunkelzahn's death. Ryan Mercury was perhaps the only other person who had been as close to the dragon as she was.

  Nadja checked her reflection in the telecom's blank screen. She took a deep breath, pushed back a stray strand of her black hair, and put on a smile for her telecom call.

  "Gordon," she said to her secretary. "Please connect me with Jane-in-the-box."

  "Yes, Miss Daviar," came Gordon's reply. "A moment please."

  "Thank you."

  A minute later, Jane-in-the-box's icon appeared on the screen. The decker's persona was an idealized woman with billowing blond hair, impossibly long legs, huge gravity-defying breasts, and tiny feet. She wore red leather pants and a low-cut jacket stretched tight over her bosom.

  The image brought a smile to Nadja's lips. She knew Jane—a thin, homely brunette with more intelligence than femininity. Her use of this persona was a statement about the ridiculousness of society's ideal female.

  "Yes, Nadja," Jane said. "What can I do for you?"

  "I need a favor."

  "Fire away."

  "First, I want to know how . . ." Nadja searched for the right word, found it. "How loyal are you to me, now that Dunkelzahn is gone?"

  Jane's icon gave a relaxed smile. "Not to worry, Nadja," she said. "I was devoted to Dunkelzahn because of what he was striving to do. I'm no less committed to that goal now that he's gone."

  Nadja almost let herself sit back in the chair. Excellent. But she didn't want her relief to show too much. "That's what I was hoping to hear," she said. "The favor, then, concerns Quicksilver."

  "Yes?"

  "I need any information you've got about what he's doing and how I can get in touch with him."

  "I can give you a recording of his last communication with Dunkelzahn."

  "Please do."

  "I think you should come down here in person. The data is very sensitive—too sensitive even for internal fiber-optic lines."

  Nadja looked hard at Jane. "You've listened to it?"

  Jane's icon nodded.

  "Can you draw any conclusions?"

  "Yes. Quicksilver was supposed to return right away. He should have been back here by now."

  "He hasn't made contact at all?"

  "No."

  Nadja shifted in her chair, trying to do it delicately so as not to show any of the discomfort that she felt. "I'

  d like you to track him down, Jane," she said. "Use whatever resources you need. Track him down and get him back here."

  "I was hoping you'd say that," Jane said.

  Nadja disconnected and stood up. Then she spent a few minutes stretching her muscles, using her yoga techniques to help her relax. It was important for her to stay focused on work. She needed to speak with Ryan to see what he knew about Dunkelzahn's death, not for any other reason.

  Then why am I so worried about him? she thought. Why can't I stop thinking about him, despite all this work I have?

  The answer came to her mind and she tried to ignore it. But she couldn't, and it hovered inside her, filling her. Making her body tremble. The simple, undeniable truth of it left her weak. She put her head in her hands, feeling tears well in her eyes.

  I love him.

  5

  He rolled on a hard mattress, sheets burning rough against his wounded skin, and dreamed of his past.

  A pinpoint of light pricked into existence off to his left. He floated in a current of dark silk, twisting and arching against the delicate flow of sublime fabric. The pinpoint grew as he approached it. Or it approached him. He couldn't tell which.

  The light overtook him in silence and inexorable serenity. And when it did, it brought a memory with it.. .

  The sensory details of the room crashed down on him. His head was on fire, the nerve endings on his scalp and neck screamed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth to his chin, the iron tang of it sharp on his tongue. He realized then that he couldn't move, his hands and feet were bound, tied to a wooden chair. His wrists burned from the tight restraints. His muscles ached as though he'd been beaten.

  The room around him smelled musty, its ancient, blue carpeting showing a grayish-white diamond pattern. Smelled old. Or maybe that was the floor-to-ceiling curtains, same dark blue, but solid except for the black stains along the top and bottom.

  What is this place? Why am I here?

  Who am I?

  The room was very dark, lit only by a flashlight in the hand of one of the people standing around him. He could see their heat patterns in the dark, three of them—one troll woman, huge in her red robes covered with arcane symbols; one human woman with runic scars over her white skin; and the other . . . seemingly a bearded human man, but there was something off about him. Something blank, like cyberware from astral space. But it wasn't cyberware.

  He couldn't remember their names, though he was certain that he should. Especially the strange one; he knew that one. In the dark, he couldn't make out the man's features; shadows seemed to darken around him. The rest of the room was filled with old tables and chairs in various stages of disuse and decay. Like an ancient restaurant or buffet. He caught the dusty reflection of a huge fish tank on his left, long since dry.

  "Basta ya," said the troll, the twisted single horn on her head touching the ceiling as she stood. "I've gotten all I can from him."

  "Mr. T.W. Saint John," said the other woman, "was acquired from Fuchi four months ago. We paid handsomely to get his inside knowledge. He's been working on the artificial mage project at HQ in Tenochtitlan. Three days ago, he went on a temporary transfer to San Antonio. We found his company car a kilometer from here.

  "But my mind scan reveals that his name is Ryan Mercury. His DNA and retinal data must have been tweaked to the Saint John identity."

  Ryan Mercury? T.W. Saint John? The names meant nothing to him.

  "What else?" asked the bearded man.

  "Nada. His mind is blank as though he is resisting, but that's not possible. He hasn't the strength."

  "He's not resisting, Gretchen," said the human female with the runic scars on her skin. "Something else is interfering with the mind probe. There's some sophisticated masking on him that I can't break through. That might be it."

 
The bearded man stepped forward. "We have no more time to waste. Ryan Mercury is known to us. He's one of Dunkelzahn's spies. We don't need to know more. Try some more . . . conventional persuasion techniques. Then kill him."

  "Yes, Señor Oscuro."

  A trideo box that Ryan hadn't noticed before sparked to life. A man's torso came into view—dark brown hair, dark blue eyes, white skin. Young and quite handsome. He wore a business suit and tie. His voice resonated into the room, deep and rumbling from the trideo's speakers. "Darke?"

  The bearded man who was called Oscuro turned to the trideo unit. "Ah, Mr. Roxborough, to what do I owe this interruption?"

  Ryan noticed that Mr. Roxborough's image looked strange when it moved. It was a very subtle thing. The texture of his skin seemed too uniform; the symmetry of his face struck Ryan as eerie.

  "I would like the body for my experiments," Roxborough said, his voice booming in English with a heavy British accent. "Is there any way you can keep him alive for me?"

  Darke turned to face the trideo. "This one is extremely dangerous—"

  "My people are fully competent to handle him." Roxborough smiled, self-confidence showing even through the video link. Then his eyes grazed over Ryan. "He has just the body I've been waiting for. I will gladly compensate you for your effort."

  Darke considered for a minute. "Very well," he said. "Although compensation is unnecessary. I ask only that you promise me two things. One, if your biologists or mages learn anything of his past or his involvement with Dunkelzahn, you will tell me immediately."

  "Of course."

  "And two, kill him when you're done." Roxborough nodded. "Certainly. I'll send a team for him immediately."

  The three-dimensional image flattened and winked out, and Darke turned back toward the others. Gretchen, the troll, had pulled a heavy hose of rubber-coated metal from under one of the tables. She looked questioningly at Darke.

  Darke's shadowy face nodded. "Proceed," he said. "I will be out by the lake, monitoring the excavation. Inform me of anything he says."

  Gretchen smiled. "Of course, Sefior."

  Darke turned and walked further into the shadows. When he was out of sight, Ryan followed his retreat by the sound of his footsteps. The man walked across about six meters of carpeting before hitting hard tile. Two meters further, Ryan judged, he passed through a door. If only he could loosen his bonds, perhaps escape was possible.

  "Now," Gretchen said, swinging her arm to warm it up, "you will talk. Tell me about who you are and why you're here."

  Ryan knew what was going to happen and clenched his teeth. The troll hit him and he said nothing. Pain flared where she hit, but it was only momentary. Each time the hose came down, Ryan felt a brief spike of pain, then it was gone, channeled away by his magic. The hose came across his back, his legs, chest, arms. He got hit in the head and groin.

  Gretchen was wrong; Ryan did not talk. But as the blows continued to fall, the pain remained longer and longer until his magic gave out. All the pain came crashing down on him abruptly, and his body screamed from the sudden agony. Thankfully, Ryan lost consciousness.

  He was back in the flow of silk clouds. Dreaming. Remembering. The light retreated until it was only a flicker. A pinpoint of whiteness dwindling on the rim of his awareness. Then gone.

  He floated timelessly. The landscape of his existence was shadows; grays and deep, deep blues. A static black river without sound, without smell. Only touch and sight. A womb of the dead.

  Other memories came to him. Sporadic and without order. . .

  A beautiful elven woman straddled him, her naked porcelain skin zebra-striped by the mini-blind shadows from the window. Her raven hair falling like dark rain over her shoulders.

  The ocean rumbled outside, its subsonic murmur touching a part of his primitive spirit, soothing it. He moved inside her slowly, gripping her with his strong hands. She seemed almost fragile next to his musculature, her thin frame delicate against his rock-hard strength.

  He trickled his fingertips down her back, over the slim curve of her butt, then up front to her breasts—exquisite and full with red-brown nipples. She moaned when he moved up to take one in his mouth.

  The smooth texture of her areola on his tongue. The rock and shift of her hips against his. The growing burn of ecstasy.

  Gave way.

  And she with him.

  . . . then it was gone; he was swept up in the current of silken tatters. Dark swimming fabric surrounded him, buoyed him. Abruptly, another vision came, flying white-hot from somewhere off to the right. A flicker of a dream, a taste of a memory. He writhed and wriggled to escape, but it overtook him like a tsunami. A fragment of a life long dead.

  The dragon crouched next to him, immense and overwhelming. Dunkelzahn, a creature with scales that glinted deep blue and silver in the dim yellow light of the chamber. Ryan stood next to the dragon, his head coming about halfway up Dunkelzahn's folded front leg. The room around them was a huge vault of hewn rock, and even though it featured modern lighting and electronics, the chamber was more reminiscent of ancient fantasy settings than of twenty-first-century technological society. It was a room fit for medieval magic, for knights and maidens. For terrifying and unstoppable evil.

  For heroes. For those who instinctively recognized the difference between right and wrong, and who fought for the right despite the allure of the wrong.

  Ryanthusar, came the dragon's voice in his head. Do not succumb to the way of thinking that has trapped so many in this time. Heroism has not vanished from the universe. It is hidden, certainly, more raw in form and subtler in manifestation. But heroes do walk the cynical streets of the Sixth World.

  Dunkelzahn's head was larger than Ryan's body. Immense black horns jutted straight from the top of the wyrm's skull, and his nose hooked into a sharp beak in the front, like an eagle's, but studded with spikes. His eyes glistened an oily yellow, slit-pupiled and reptilian.

  Even though Dunkelzahn could easily rip Ryan in half with one quick strike of a massive claw, Ryan did not fear him. Ryan had grown up with the dragon, and he trusted the wyrm with his life.

  Are you ready to enter the Matrix, Ryanthusar?

  "Yes, Dunkelzahn."

  Jane?

  "I'm ready for him," came the reply. She was in her mid-thirties, a human with an emaciated body that indicated neglect and a general distaste for the corporeal. Scraggly brown hair sprouted from the top of her head and hung down over the shaved area along the back of her skull where a clear plastic panel covered six datajacks and a softlink. She waved a skeletal hand for Ryan to join her at the decking console next to the wall.

  Ryan walked over, aware of the dragon's gaze on him. He sat down next to Jane, sinking into the extremely comfortable cushions of the chair.

  I will follow along, came Dunkelzahn's telepathic words. If Jane doesn't mind. I don't want you to use my icon, however.

  Jane nodded, then looked at Ryan. "Have you ever used a 'trode rig?"

  "No."

  Jane picked up a skull cap made of black nylon webbing and fiber-optic lines. Then she stood up and moved around behind Ryan. "It fits over your head like so." She proceeded to stretch the cap over Ryan's skull. It fit tight and snug.

  "I slot this end into the hitcher jack on my deck, and you're ready to cruise the data stream with me. You won't have any control, and the feedback filters ought to jack you out if we hit trouble, but there is a risk. This 'trode rig is SOT A, state of the art, chummer. It's hot out of the Vision-Quest tech labs, and its specs're as good as a cheap datajack. Which means you'll feel it if any intrusion countermeasures hit me."

  Jane slotted the plug into the shiny black panel on the deck, then pulled another cord from under the panel and snugged it into one of the datajacks on her skull. "Of course, the IC seldom ever hits me, and this is an easy run. We're just going to slide into the Fuchi star, Villiers' camp, to implant the fabricated identity of T.W. Saint John. You, my friend."

  Jane looked a
t the dragon. "Ready for trance," she said. Proceed.

  Jane stiffened slightly as Dunkelzahn entered her mind. He would see the Matrix through her, telepathically. It was almost like the dragon was doing the decking. Ryan felt his presence as Jane engaged the link.

  Then he forgot everything as they fell through the neon sky of the Matrix. Free fall.

  Falling and falling and falling . ..

  Until the memory careens away in silence. Billowing blankets of the softest silk caress him as he falls, nearing the rim. The event horizon of the blackout fringe. Over. Gone.

  He regained consciousness slowly and with great effort. Even before he opened his eyes, he felt himself to be lying on a hard mattress, a thin foam pillow under his head. Rough sheets chafed at his raw skin. The dull ache of bruised muscles throbbed from his extremities, as if from a great distance. As if through the haze of pain dampers or drugs.

  He rolled over slowly, carefully. Opened his eyes a crack, letting them adjust to the harsh white of overhead fluorescents. Nothing of who he was remained. Even the memories he knew he'd just experienced were lost to him, drifting away from his consciousness like leaves in a breeze.

  Who am I?

  He sat up abruptly, wincing from the sudden pain. He had to see what he looked like. The light made him squint at first, but he needed to examine his body. Needed to check, for some reason he could not trace, that the sanctity of his flesh had not been violated by machines.

  He threw back the white clinic sheets and looked down at his body. Human, male, with white skin, tinted slightly olive. He was solidly built and strong, but he could see that he'd been bruised recently. Purplish red splotches and webs of blood vessels floated under his skin.