Ecko Burning (32 page)

Thera?

Behind them, there was the solid
boom!
of a slamming door, the clunk of a metal bar. He turned instinctively, but his orientation had gone - like some fucker had bunged a bag over his head.

Instinctively, his grip tightened on the Manhunter. He stretched out the other hand.

“Thera?” The sound was swallowed - wherever he was, it was fucking huge.

Somewhere to his left, Roderick said, “Lugan?”

The wall was warm and soft. “Sorry, luv.” He drew his hand back sharply. “Rick? You awright?”

Movement, closer. “Here.” The Bard’s hand on his shoulder. “Rest easy, you can see with your hearing, your skin. There is no reason to fear.”

The irony of their role-reversal was not lost on Lugan.

“Fuck that noise.” He fumbled in his pocket. A moment later he chinked open his lighter and struck a tiny, bright flame. It flickered from the metal rings in Thera’s nostril.

“Don’t..!” She reached for it, but was drowned out by a hideous cry and the noise of something moving far above... something the size of a small truck.

Lugan shut the lighter with a snap and the darkness swallowed them all.

In his chest, his heart began to tremble.
What the fuck was...?

“Don’t you be using the lighter in here,” Thera said. “Auntie keeping an eye on you boys - maybe she keeping more than one.” A hand pushed, propelling him forwards. “Now, you move.”

Roderick said softly, “‘Auntie’?”

Lugan said, “I
don’t
wanna know.”

Blind as newborn rats, they moved.

As they stumbled forwards, the sense of space grew bigger, the air colder. Far above them, the creature called Auntie shifted unseen, a recurring nightmare.

Whatever it was, it was keeping pace with them.

And it was
big.

Then a woman’s voice, young, musical, soft, said...

“Stop.”

They stopped.

Waited, straining to hear.

After a moment’s tantalising pause, it spoke again, like a crystal bell, feminine, amused. “So, the mighty Ade Eastermann himself, here in my very lair. And you’ve brought your - friend.” Her tinkling laugh brought a cold sweat to Lugan’s shoulders. “Gentlemen, how is my Ecko?”

There was only one way to do
this
deal. “We need to ask you a favour.”

“Oh?” The query was deceptively mild.

“We’re lookin’ for info. We busted a sniffer, brought down ’er ’arddrive.”

“Why do you not ask your Collator? Does this drive carry some risk?” Her softness was lethal.

“Collator’s off sick,” Lugan said.

“Really.” The voice was a sparkle, amused. “And what of my Ecko? I hear” - and she was moving in the darkness - “rumours.”

“He is well,” Roderick told her, “if you believe in the gaps between worlds.”

Lugan smacked his forehead with an open palm.

“Worlds, you say?” The tech’s laughter was like icicles, like crystal knives. “You’re an alien, are you? Arrived in a spaceship, perhaps?”

“I arrived in a pub.” Roderick’s aplomb was impressive. “A pub in which your Ecko has been resident until quite recently.”

Her laughter stopped dead. “Interesting.”

Lugan flicked the Manhunter’s safety.

And the silence swelled to bursting.

When she spoke again, all traces of humour had been stripped from her voice, like flesh from bone. “Well, what a fascinating creature you must be.”

The Bard gasped - shocking, unexpected pain.
“Ah!”

What the -?

Lugan was crouched in a second, ten-mil out of the holster, still concealed. Sudden anticipation - dread, certainly - tightened his muscles to a wary coil. Like that moment when you knew you’d fucked it and you were going over the handlebars... that endless, freefalling second before actual tarmac...

What had she done?

Now, her voice was tight with tension, sharply alive - need, fear, lust. “You’re not human.” The words were taut as a choke-hold, half-disbelieving. She wasn’t playing any more, the darkness rippled with her urgency. “What are you?” Louder. Now harsh, clashing metallic.
“What. Are. You?”

“Lost,” Roderick said calmly.

Lugan pulled the Manhunter, coughed to cover the hammer, held it low.

And it was whisked from him, caught with a length of fishing line.

Slightly sticky fishing line.

Jesus.

The crash came. He slammed into the tarmac, skidded into the realisation: they were trapped in here, no exits, no comms. Only when they missed the 2:33 failsafe check-in...

Panic!

Suddenly scared to the soles of his boots, he bit down on the violence that screamed beneath his skin, begging for release in a demand for freedom, a detonation of righteous anger.

You’re not human.

Then he sensed something directly before him, something significantly bigger than his own six foot four. Something metal-cold.

The tech said, “Give him to me, Lugan. Please.” Her voice was an irresistible girlish flirt. It shivered round in his head with the knowledge of her sadism, the atrocities she’d committed. She’d flayed Ecko alive, for fuck’s sake, eaten his eyes right out of their sockets.

Mom.

“’E’s not mine to give, luv.” He was still crouched, ready to go for the heavy, carbon-fibre boot-knife. “An’ that ain’t why we’re ’ere. We’re lookin’ -”

“Give him to me, Lugan,” the tech said, “and I’ll answer your questions. All of them.” Her breath was sweet, eager, like spring. “You want to ID your friend? That’s easy. You want to know Tarquinne Gabriel’s agenda? That’s a little harder. You want to know what assails Collator? That’s almost a challenge.” She laughed, high and sparkling, like water. “Ask me anything, Lugan. I’m the soul and the memory; I’m the creator and the crafter. I’m mother and lover. The world seethes round and through me. I’m the
fountain
of all knowledge.”

Oh, you’re kidding...

His heart crystallised and shattered. He was a rat in a maze, helpless, manipulated. He knew what was coming - he was turning, trying to speak, trying to deny the absolutely
fucking
inevitable...

“I need that knowledge, more than I have words to frame.” Roderick’s voice was an impassioned thrum, his boots scraped as he moved. “I fear not your darkness, be it in your mind or in your heart. Perhaps I too, can strike a trade with you - my Tundran blood for your comprehension. My knowledge for yours.”

It was like a meeting of worlds - like fucking
destiny
had just smacked him one, straight up the side of the head.

Are you fuckin’...
Lugan found his voice, tried again. “Are you fuckin’ barkin’?”
Destiny,
for fucksake, this was getting out of hand. “D’you know what she did to Ecko? D’you have any fucking
clue...?”

“Yes.” The word hovered in the darkness like a moth waiting for the light. “Lugan, I have done nothing for far too long. Your knowledge is vast, critical, its speed impossible - it defies everything I have ever believed.” A hand gripped his shoulder, a brother, a plea. “Your powerflux - your ‘net’ - is everything I have ever wanted to be. This is my responsibility, the charge and dream I have carried since I was a child. I am a Guardian of the Ryll. I
must
understand - I must have your lore. And I must take that learning home.”

“Fuller can give you a web-link anytime.” Why did the sentence sound so trite? “Rick, look, mate -”

“Lugan, please.” The hand gripped harder. “It is as if the Count of Time himself brought me here. All these pieces have fitted into place like steps of stone - eternal. We have come for a
reason.
I must understand your powerflux.” Harder still, then let him go. “If I can take this home, if I can
remember,”
the word was pure passion, “I can save my world. Would you not do the same?”

Would you not do the same?

Pilgrim. Corporate control, pharmaceutical control. London, great city now soulless, rotting from the inside.

The bloke was a fucking loony - but he had more guts than Mr Creosote.

“I wish I could, mate.” The naïveté of it made him chuckle, wry and almost saddened. “But it ain’t ever that fuckin’ simple.”

“Ecko believes it is,” Roderick said. His faith was blind, resolute, untouchable. “It seems suitable that I visit his mother in order to help my own.”

Something dropped in Lugan’s thoughts - an old penny, tumbling finally down through an arcade maze.

Not human. Your DNA really isn’t fucking human.

You - the tavern - it’s all fucking
real.

Mental brakes squealed as he stopped to look at the thought.
Real. Fucking
destiny.

You’re ’aving a laugh.

Then he snorted.
Jesus Harry Christ, I reckon Tarquinne drugged that fucking needle after all. I’m gonna wake up in a minute with one bitch of an’ ’angover.

“Such idealism.” The tech sighed like a shimmer, enticing. “My hatchlings have dreams - dreams I build.” In the darkness, Roderick shuddered. “Tell me what you want - and let me make it happen. If you survive, nothing will
ever
frighten you again.”

“I want...” For a moment, the Bard’s voice broke, whether in fear, Lugan couldn’t tell. “I went to the Council of Nine and they did not heed me. I need to wake the world. I need to make her people
listen.”

“The throat you have isn’t enough?” Her sparkling laugh, chill as ice-water. “I’ll give you a new voice, hatchling, a cry to bring down the very sky. Thera,” the last words rang with dismal finality, “secure him.”

“Voice?” The Bard’s question was a breath, a tremor. “How will I -?”

“Don’t worry, child. By the time it’s yours to wield, you’ll know it... intimately.” She gave a final, shimmering laugh. “Stand down, my sister. As promised, I’ll answer Lugan’s questions. And let him go safely.

“Before I install
Khamsin.”

* * *

“You did
what?”
In the odd light of the tavern taproom, Karine stood in a too-brief night garment, hands on hips, outrage shouting from her skin.

Lugan dropped onto a bench with a solid thump.

“’E volunteered. Offered ’is blood to Save the World.” He fully expected to be whacked with a frying pan any second. “’Ow’s your bouncer?”

Fuller? You awake? Get your arse down ’ere!

“Sera’s mending fine and
don’t
you change the subject.” Karine jabbed a furious fingertip. “You prove to me, mush, you didn’t sell him out to buy information and I won’t kick your sorry arse up one side of this room and down the other.”

Lugan eyed her state of dress, thought better of the obvious response. Instead, he stood up, shed jacket and cut-down, pulled his tee over his head and turned round.

“There’s a picture in your skin.” Karine didn’t sound impressed.

He turned back, massive bodybuilder frame earning him a sceptical, half-raised eyebrow.

“I don’t betray me mates.” His voice was stone.

What?
Fuller sounded sleepy.
What’s up?

In the pub. You know which one. Get down ’ere.

“Put your clothes back on,” Karine said. “You’re not impressing anybody.”

On my way,
Fuller said.
Ten minutes. Put the kettle on, will you? This’d better be good to get me out of bed at four in the morning. Why can’t you do this over the link?

Quit whingin’ and get down ’ere!

All right, all right. Coming.

Lugan picked up his tee, pulled it back on, realised it was inside out, swore.

“I’m fucking knackered,” he commented. “But I got us some light - I know ’ow we find Ecko.”

“And how we get home?” Karine’s question was almost a plea. He looked at her for a moment - in the half-light she was suddenly vulnerable, very young.

“I dunno, luv,” he grinned at her, wryly amused. “I still dunno if you’re even ’ere at all.”

* * *

They sat in the taproom, patches of fluorescent light spilling through tiny mica panes. Steam curled gently from the mouth of the herbal jug, smoke from the dog-end between Lugan’s lips.

A grey-and-white cat prowled uneasily, sniffing at corners.

“Collator’s still skewed,” Fuller said. “It’s responsive but the probabilities are way off. I’ve bypassed the building security feeds, they’re straight to my flatscreen. We’re good.”

“You know this is all fuckin’ ’atstand,” Lugan said. “Maybe I am just trippin’ me nuts off.”

“I feel fine,” Fuller told him.

“Yeah, but I could be ’allucinating you too.” He blew a smoke-filled shrug, took another drag. “Still, best get the fuck on with it. Trip or no, it ain’t gonna fix itself.”

Karine grinned. “You’re the soul of practicality. Herbal?”

“Awright.” He shoved a leather mug across the table.

Fuller said,
Recording... now.

“Friday 12th April, ’bout 2 a.m., Ecko buggered off the roof of Grey’s base on the South Bank. ’E never ’it the floor. ’E fell through an ’ole in reality, and wound up in ’ere - where ’e went on some
mission
to save your world.” His sarcasm was unavoidable. “Seems to be an ’abit with you people. Anyway, that’s the easy bit.”

“It’s not impossible, Luge,” Fuller said. “Over a million people a year vanish without trace. Crater, Earhart, Rockefeller. In 2017, Mark Domesday left his own gig and never arrived backsta-”

“Shut up!” Annoyed, Lugan stubbed out his dog-end, smearing soot on the tabletop. “In Ecko’s skin, there’re tracers - semi-passive, short streams of numbers at pre-set intervals. Their frequency rotates, but we can follow ’em. They geo-plot ’is location an’ predict ’is next move. Simple.” He threw a small, smart-nerved receiver into Fuller’s startled hands. “The numbers’ll give us ’is bio-rhythms - ’ow ’e’s doin’, when ’e’s asleep...” He shrugged away the end of the sentence, reached for another dog-end. “I’m bettin’ my fuckin’ Shovel ’ead those numbers are still comin’ from Grey’s base. I wanna know what the ’ell went down in there.”