Entromancy (3 page)

My cruiser’s console beeped with an incoming call from Striker.  I ignored it, lowering the bike onto the ground level and maneuvering in between the pedestrians and stopped cars towards the perimeter.

I brought the vehicle to a halt just outside of the yellow tape and swung my leg over the side.  Tribe started to get off as well, but I put a hand firmly on his chest.

“Stay here,” I said, pushing him back onto the bike.  His tanned face scrunched in protest, but he sat still.

I walked a few paces towards a couple of police officers standing on the sidewalk, and turned back towards the cruiser.  Catching Tribe’s eye, I tapped pointedly at the back of my neck, and then at him.  He understood my meaning, morosely rooting himself to the cruiser.

The Blues straightened perceptibly as they saw me approach.  There was no love lost between the city’s peacekeeping force and the government’s pet defense agency, but SFPD had neither the technology nor the mancy training to back up anything more than hollow protests about NIGHT jurisdiction over their crime scenes.  To them, interacting with us was a little bit like being forced to do a group project with the school bully.

“Evening, officers,” I said, trying to put them at ease.  “What’s the scene look like here?”

“Under control,” one of them, a short Caucasian fellow with a close-cropped beard, replied gruffly.  The other, a stocky African American woman, just stared at me.

“Bomb threat, taken care of,” he continued, eyeing my torn clothing and dirty brown hair, which must have been darker than usual with dust and who knew what else.

I nodded, looking at the building behind the police tape.  “Have you evacuated?  Any inhabitants?”

“Not that we know of,” he said tersely.

I scanned the storefront for a few more moments, wondering who among the other NIGHTs had been sent to investigate it and what they had found.  I suspected that the other North Beach building was similarly under control, and it made me shiver.  I didn’t care for the idea that the downtown dispensary was special, or that someone knew when I would be there, and why.  It made me feel like an open target.

“Any drones catch anything?” I asked at length.

“Aren’t any drones left around here,” the man said.

I nodded again, expecting as much.  “Carry on.”  I turned on my heel, walking back towards the cruiser.

“I hate them,” I heard the woman say when she thought I was out of earshot.

My earpiece buzzed twice as I walked over, alerting me of two waiting messages.  Tribe had moved into the driver’s seat and was holding up a small digitab and fiddling with the console.  The device finished syncing as I reached the cruiser, enabling the vehicle’s sound system and beginning to play a turn-of-the-century reggae anthem.

The auric looked up as I approached, grinning.  “I’ve never sat in one of these before!” he exclaimed.

“Why do I not believe you?” I muttered under my breath, waving a hand and killing the sound system.  He jumped back into the passenger seat and I straddled the cruiser, enabling the messages on my lens display.  The bike lurched forward under my touch as we turned away from the perimeter.

Both messages were sent within twenty seconds of each other.  The first, from Striker, read simply:
Return to HQ
.  The second, barely more informative, was from Madge.

HQ not safe
, it read. 
Disappear
.

I allowed the messages to fade from my display, letting the bike cruise for a few blocks.  Until thirty minutes ago, my occupation had been fairly straightforward: root out enemies of the state, neutralize or otherwise eliminate them, and generally keep myself out of harm’s way while doing it.  I’m ordinarily very good at my job, but in the past half hour, things had become infinitely more complicated.  The network of NIGHT informants was normally airtight, and I had never been given a reason to doubt my intel.  For things to have gone south so quickly was a huge warning sign, never mind Madge’s message, which I trusted implicitly.

The night wind ruffled my hair as I drove us along aimlessly, considering.  I needed time and I needed information, and didn’t know how to find either.  As much as I hated to admit it, I needed help.

“We’re going to take a detour,” I said to the auric behind me.

“Whatever man, I don’t have any place to be,” he replied lazily.

Taking a deep breath, I used the cruiser console to disengage the bike and my digitab from the network, leaving me technologically blind against anything that was happening in the digital sphere, but protecting us from being traced.

“Know anyone that can hack into a mainframe?” I asked Tribe.

“No,” he said thoughtfully from behind me, “but I bet I know someone who does.”

THREE

Baseball is the best human sport in existence.  After soccer.  Soccer is the best human sport in existence
.

-The Sigil of Sparks

I
t took a lot longer to reach Tribe’s contact without the cruiser’s network-enabled routefinder, but as soon as we pulled into the Richmond district I had a fair idea of whom he was taking me to see.  Paradoxically, there were very few fences who worked this far out from the city center and close to the Golden Gate.  Only a small number of people had sway with the auric king’s outpost beneath the erstwhile Presidio less than a mile away.

Alina Hadzic was a former big leaguer and relief pitcher, leading the San Francisco Giants to three Global Championships and two World Series, headlining the papers as the first half-auric woman to play in the majors.  A rookie sensation, she skyrocketed to the top of the player rankings for her first decade of play, retiring early to serve in the Fourth Gulf War and returning with a well-documented interest in visiting the underrace capital north of the city, Aurichome.  Rather than making the rounds as a politician or sports commentator, as seemed to have become the standard pipeline for retired athletes, she quietly opened a sports-themed bar on the outskirts of the Richmond.

It was no secret that after Hadzic returned from overseas, she had developed more than a little vocal sympathy for the auric king and his revolutionary cause.  Call it PTSD, going native, or whatever, but she isolated what small celebrity platform she had made for herself by making a few choice comments about the American government and its lack of institutional support for the underraces.

It was, however, much less known that her bar was an underground railroad for rev movement.  Most underrace citizens with their pointed ears to the ground knew about her operation, and that hers was a safe place for revolutionaries.  Among their own, they called her the Pitcher.

We pulled up in front of the sports bar, a large space that was all windows, stuck between two towering, hastily constructed apartment buildings.  Flags from various Bay Area sports teams stuck out colorfully from an orange- and black-painted awning.  A small, AR-enabled sign hung over the heavy front door, flashing
They Might Be Giant
in three-dimensional curvilinear script.  The place looked closed for the night and empty, dark except for a few small lights within.

My temple had started throbbing during our ride as the Oxadrenalthaline wore off.  I rubbed at it gently as I parked the cruiser, reaching into the side compartment for another syringe.

“You want one?” I asked the auric, who had hopped off the bike and was making his way to a tiny corridor on the left side of the building.

“Nah,” he drawled, his mouth visibly swollen, “she’ll take care of it.”

I pricked my temple and felt my vision clear immediately.  Scanning the street for any movement and seeing none, I followed the thief into the alleyway.

He was already tapping away furiously at his digitab, pressing it up against a mechanism on the building’s side entrance.  The lock quietly beeped, and Tribe pushed the door open with a palm.  He flashed me a toothy, blood-stained grin, and stepped inside.

Roughly two seconds later, he came hurtling back out of the door, slamming into the wall of the adjacent building and falling into a heap on the ground.  My hand shot to the pistol within my coat, but before I could move, a shadow leapt through the side entrance and on top of the hapless auric, growling and tearing at his jacket.

“
Down
, Buster!” a voice called from within the bar.  A woman stuck her head out into the alley, her frizzy hair looking like an angry octopus in the darkness.

“Tribe, that you?” she said, reaching out a hand to tug on the wolf’s scruff.  The hound reluctantly responded to her touch, easing off of Tribe and sitting at the woman’s feet.

The woman stepped into the alleyway, helping Tribe to his feet.  “The hell, man?  How many times do I have to tell you to let me know when you’re coming?”

“Sorry,” the auric said, dusting himself off.  “When’s he going to stop doing that?”

I stood unnoticed, watching the exchange.  The woman cut a slender but muscular figure in the gloom, her strong arms exposed under a faded black jersey.

I cleared my throat awkwardly.  “Nice to see you, Alina.”

The Pitcher looked up at me, startled, then nodded.  “Nightpath.”

She turned back to Tribe and ushered him into the building.  “What did you do to your face?”

The auric stuck a thumb out in my direction as he ducked inside.  Alina glowered at me again and then down at the wolf, who was waiting patiently.

“Great guard dog you are,” she said spitefully. 

He wagged his tail happily in response.  I’ve always been good with dogs.

I followed the half-auric and her wolf companion into the room, a small service area with neatly stacked plates, tankards, and silverware.  She closed the door behind us and led me into the sports bar proper, a sprawling, open space with several wooden tables and chairs positioned strategically around augmented reality display monitors.  An L-shaped bar hugged the far corner of the room, wiped impeccably clean and gleaming under a few overhead lights.  I marveled at the wall space, which was crowded with memorabilia, signed jerseys, and team flags.

“Nice place,” I said stupidly.

The Pitcher ignored me and ushered Tribe to the bar, stepping behind it to grab a couple of glasses.  The wolf wandered into a spot near a small standing fan and plopped himself down, licking himself contentedly.

“Rum and coke?” Alina asked the auric, rummaging behind the counter.

“Please,” he said, picking at his jaw.

“Nightpath?” her muffled voice echoed from behind the bar.

“Double scotch, no ice,” I called back to her, reading an inscription on a signed photo of Alina posing in her Giants uniform with the previous city mayor. 
To Alina
, it read,
for giving all of us an example to follow
.  I wondered what he thought of her now that she was on the other side of the political fence.

The half-auric reappeared behind the bar, expertly mixing a drink for each of us.  I walked over and sat down at one of the cushioned stools, grabbing a handful of mixed pretzels and nuts, suddenly starving.  Tribe gingerly lifted his drink to his mouth, trying to figure out how to drink it around his swollen tongue.

“I didn’t realize how badly you were hurt,” she said, eyeing me accusingly.

I put my hand up in resignation and took a sip of the scotch, following it with some of the pretzels.  The mix of peat and salt tasted incredible, and I could feel my body relax a bit.

“Here,” Alina said, taking the drink from Tribe’s hand and reaching behind the bar again.  She pulled out a pure ceridium crystal, dropping it into an empty glass and grinding it into dust with a spoon.  Emptying the cup’s contents into a calloused palm, she spoke several words in an earthy language that sounded like autumn leaves rustling.  She cupped Tribe’s chin in her free hand, drizzling the dust over his jaw and face.

The auric’s normally swarthy visage pulsed with an azure light as the magic took effect.  The glow subsided after several seconds, but his face retained a youthful, rested look to it.

“Thanks,” he said, throwing back his drink.

Alina glanced at my forehead, pointing.  “You want me to look at that?”

“I’ll be alright,” I said, then raised an eyebrow at her wryly.  “Pitcher, barkeep,
and
terramancer?”

“What, I can’t have a hobby?”

I raised my hands again in submission, but made a mental note to do some research about where she learned magic, and from whom.

“What’s the sitch?” she said abruptly, changing the subject.  “It’s not often that I get one A.M. visits from government turncoats.”

I ignored the barb and took another sip of scotch.  “Someone tried to kill me,” I said plainly.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

I related the story of the evening’s events, leaving out the specifics of my mission briefing but revealing enough information to let her know my suspicions of the faulty intel and my reluctance to return to the NIGHT headquarters.  I finished by explaining how the North Beach jobs went off without a hitch, and that I was off the grid because of Madge’s warning.

The half-auric took it all in silently, sipping a clear liquid through a straw.  When I completed my story, she looked off in the distance for a few minutes, thinking.  I waited patiently, swirling the glass in my hand and trying not to stare at her.  Even in the bar light, her brown mane shimmered, tumbling down her strong shoulders and framing her pale face.  The tips of her softly pointed ears peeked out beneath the nest of curls, and a splash of freckles across her small nose made her face look a little playful.

I coughed politely and busied myself looking at the wall decorations.  Tribe went around the bar and started mixing himself another drink, and Buster snored softly nearby, having put himself to sleep.

“What do you want from me?” Alina asked finally, turning her piercing blue eyes on me.

I motioned towards Tribe. “This one thinks you can help me find someone who can hack into the NIGHT HQ’s mainframe.”

“How is that going to help?”

I took another swig of scotch.  “I’m a hundred percent certain tonight wasn’t supposed to go down the way it did, and about seventy percent sure it was an inside job.”  My mouth burned a little from the alcohol, but I could feel my body warm to it comfortingly.  “The place was supposed to have been deserted, with a minor incendiary that should have gone off thirteen minutes later.”

The Pitcher nodded, sipping softly at her drink.

“My supplied passcode was incorrect,” I continued, “and that bomb could have taken out a whole block without the shadow shield attached to it.  Whoever set up the job either didn’t know about the ragers or didn’t care about killing all of them, and the whole street with them.”

I finished off the scotch, popping a few more pretzels in my mouth.  “More importantly, they knew when I was going to be there, and made every effort to make sure I was caught in that blast.  It’s only because of the thief,” I pointed at Tribe again, “that we all made it out of there alive.”

The auric, who had been listening absently, perked up at that, saluting me ridiculously with his drink.

“There are only two groups who would have access to my mission intel.  Any of the revolutionary informants’ lives would be forfeit if they provided false information.  The NIGHTs would either give them up to the auric king for his own judgment on their betrayal, or otherwise have them taken care of.”

I set down the glass quietly, allowing the information to sink in.

“That leaves-”

“The NIGHTs themselves,” Alina finished my sentence.

I nodded, sitting back in the stool and crossing my arms.

“Piss,” Tribe said perfunctorily.

“So,” I said, “I need someone who can hack into the NIGHT mainframe and get me more information about the botched briefing.  I have my lens recording of the whole thing, and audio of my conversation with Striker, but he’s a cog in the machine.  I have a pretty good idea of who sent the order, but I need proof before I can take it national.”

The Pitcher sat in thought, twirling her finger through an unruly curl.  It was almost rust-colored in the soft light.

“Gloric Vunderfel,” she said eventually.

“Is that a name?”

Alina nodded.

“Never heard of him,” I complained.

“Why would you?” she retorted.

“The technomancer!” Tribe chimed in.

I felt my brow furrow in confusion.  “Technomancy?  Is that a thing?”

Both of them looked at me as though I had asked if the earth really does go around the sun.  I’m not used to being uninformed.

“How do we find him?” I asked, swallowing my pride.

“Easy,” the Pitcher replied, reaching into a pocket for her digitab.  “I’ve got him on speed dial.”

Before she could use the device, Buster jumped up from his place in the corner, growling menacingly at the street.  The three of us started, turning as one to face the large windows.

It was difficult to see out into the dark street outside, but I could make out ten or more shadowy figures, obscured in the night and approaching
They Might Be Giant
.  Soft blue lights swayed as they moved, the only visible signs of their ceridium weapons.

“Down!” I yelled, trusting the others had seen the hit squad as well, or would at least listen to my command.  I dove behind a nearby table and threw my body against it to uproot it in front of me.  I could hear a crash of glasses behind me as Alina and Tribe flattened themselves against the bar.

The shadows opened fire on the sports bar.  Silent ceridium bullets pelted through the establishment’s windows like horizontal rain, making ugly sounds as they lodged into the tables and walls.  Glass shattered as the projectiles hit tankards and framed pictures, and several cobalt bullets streaked by me and thudded into the heavy table.