Pawn’s Gambit (40 page)

“No, not that,” the gnome said. “Please pull me up—I'll explain everything.”

“You'd better,” Kersh warned. Clenching his teeth, he started to pull.

Only to discover to his horror that he couldn't. His strength—his massive, trollish strength—was gone. All of it. “You have to drop that barrel,” he said. “Do it—there's no one below who'll get hurt.”

“I can't,” the gnome said. “It's looped around the arm you're holding. Please, just pull me up.”

Kersh tried again, but it was no use. “I can't,” he gritted. “You're too heavy.”

“Don't drop me,” the gnome pleaded. “Please.”

“Don't worry,” Kersh said. But the words were hollow … because if anyone had cause to worry, it was the gnome.

Because Kersh's own last chance now was to let the other fall to his death. Only then might he have enough strength to pull himself back up onto the safety of the bridge.

The gnome deserved to die, anyway. Hadn't he tried to destroy Kersh's bridge, and perhaps hundreds of humans along with it?

“Please,” the gnome begged.

Kersh clenched his teeth, looking around desperately. But there was nothing. Nowhere for his feet to get a purchase; no one and nothing that could help them. The shallows of the river rippled along far below, the water glittering tantalizingly in the city lights.

But Kersh knew the water's promise was an empty one. The depth they would need to survive a fall of this distance was much too far away for him to reach.

The trembling in his muscles was getting worse. Another few minutes and his grip would give way. This was, he knew, his very last chance to save himself.

And then, over the rippling water, he heard a voice.

It was an ethereal voice, a haunting voice, rich with the lure of things bright and wonderful as it sang a wordless song of invitation and love. The music filled Kersh's ears, banishing his anger and even his fear.

He closed his eyes, savoring the music like he'd never savored anything before. The agony in his arms, the danger to his bridge, even his own imminent death—none of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was the song.

The song, and a sudden overwhelming desire to seek out the singer. To hear the music up close, the way it was meant to be heard.

The thought wasn't even fully formed in his mind when he suddenly found himself swinging by his arm from the bridge, drawing on deep sources of strength he hadn't even known he had. Higher and higher he swung, back and forth, ignoring the pain in his arms and the little bleatings of the gnome still hanging below him. The song was calling to him, rising on the wind, stretching out to his heart as it beckoned him to the deep, open water.

The song reached its climax; and as Kersh reached the top of his arc, he shoved himself off the bridge with his last ounce of strength, hurling himself and the gnome in a long, high arc toward the river. The wind whistled past, chilling his sweat-soaked face and arms as the two of them fell toward the dark river below—

They hit with a tremendous splash, and as the water closed over Kersh he braced himself for the bone-breaking impact that would come as he slammed into the riverbed.

But he didn't. His momentum eased, and then stopped, still with only water beneath his feet. That last powerful push had somehow sent them flying far enough outward to reach the safety of deep water. Kicking with his feet, digging into the water with his free hand, he started to claw his way toward the surface far above.

And then, a hand appeared from nowhere, grabbing onto the back of his collar. A second later, he found himself being pulled upward far faster than he could have managed even with both hands free. The weight of the gnome he was still gripping suddenly eased, and he realized that the little creature had finally been able to rid himself of his deadly burden. The water above Kersh grew lighter …

With another violent splash, his head broke through the surface. Gasping for breath, he let go of the gnome's arm and stretched out both hands to keep himself afloat. He spotted the gnome a few feet away, his thin face and large eyes showing a fading panic as he also gulped in great lungfuls of air. Holding him tightly, keeping his face well above the water, was a young woman.

Or rather, something that looked like a young woman. “Thank you for not dropping him,” she said quietly to Kersh.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” Kersh replied. “You're a siren?”

She nodded, and Kersh could see now that the eyes in that young face looked old. Old, and tired, and sad. “What happens now?” she asked.

Kersh took a couple of deep breaths. With her song no longer filling his mind, his arms suddenly felt like lead weights. “You can start by helping us back to shore,” he said. “And then,” he added, eyeing her as sternly as he could manage under the circumstances, “we need to talk.”

“You have to understand,” Grizzal said, his voice pleading, his thin gnome body shivering in the chilly night air. “Without purpose to her life, Serina was wasting away. Dying. I'd tried everything else. This was the only other thing I could think of.”

“What, destroying my bridge?” Kersh countered.

“She needed to see people plunging into the water around her,” Grizzal said, clutching the hand of the ancient-eyed woman sitting on the ground beside him. “I know it wouldn't have been the same as if she'd sung them in. I know that. But I thought it might at least keep her alive until I could come up with something else.”

“I told him not to,” Serina said, her voice as tired as her eyes. “I know that my purpose is gone. That those who demanded such service from me are gone, as well.”

“And it was an evil purpose besides,” Kersh said.

“Robbing travelers who only wanted to cross a river in peace was any less evil?” Grizzal countered.

Kersh grimaced. “I know,” he conceded. “But—”

“But it was your purpose,” Serina said. “We are what we are.”

“I never killed people, anyway,” Kersh muttered. But he could nevertheless felt some sympathy for this creature of the old world, trapped hopelessly and without purpose here in the new.

“The people I sang to didn't always die, either,” Serina said. “I always kept singing after they went into the water, hoping the extra strength I could give them would let them reach the shore.”

“It's not death she needs anyway,” Grizzal insisted. “It's sailors coming to her song. That's all she wants. That's all she needs.”

Kersh shook his head. “You should have picked a smaller bridge.”

Grizzal clutched his thin knees with his arms. “Or picked one without a troll.”

“We won't bother you again,” Serina said quietly. “You, or your bridge. Thank you again for saving Grizzal.”

She stood up, helping the still shivering gnome to his feet. Turning, they headed south along the river.

Kersh looked up at the span arching over his head, a sudden ache in his heart.
Your bridge
, she'd said. Only he had no bridge. Not anymore. In fact, at this point he would be lucky if there weren't already an arrest warrant out for him.

He looked back at the two figures walking slowly down the shoreline. “Hey!” he called, hauling himself to his feet.

They turned. “Yes?” Serina asked.

“This is ridiculous,” Kersh declared as he joined them. “We've lived on this world for hundreds of years. We can't just give up.
You
can't just give up.”

“You have an idea?” Grizzal asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” Kersh admitted. “But we've got brains, and we've got experience.”

“Right,” Grizzal muttered.

“It'll be enough,” Kersh said firmly.

“If it's not,” Serina offered, “we also have a chest full of gold and gems.”

Kersh blinked. “We do?”

“
We
do,” Grizzal said, giving the siren a quick frown. “Gnomes guard treasures. You didn't know that?”

“Nope,” Kersh assured him. “But that's great. It means we've got brains, experience,
and
money. So let's put our heads together and see what we can come up with.”

The faint screams of a hundred children were drifting through the midmorning breezes when Kersh heard a soft, nearly-forgotten voice in his ear. “Greetings to you, Troll.”

“And to you, Lord Albho,” Kersh said, squinting out of the corner of his eye. The air sprite was even harder to see in the bright sunlight than he was at night, especially hovering against the bright colors of Kersh's new home. “I trust you and your people are well?”

“We are,” Lord Albho said, and Kersh could hear the puzzlement in his voice. “What is this place? I have never seen its like.”

“This is where I now live and work,” Kersh told him. “My job with the other bridge came to an end.”

“Yes, we noticed your absence,” Lord Albho said. “We were mourning your passing until one of my people chanced upon you here.” The faint figure started suddenly as distant music joined the children's screams. “That voice!” he breathed. “Is that a
siren
?”

“Indeed it is,” Kersh confirmed. “She sings all day long, watching with immense satisfaction as lines of people come to her and then hurl themselves into the depths of the water.”

“And
drown
?” Lord Albho asked, sounding shocked. “And you stand by and do nothing to stop it?”

“I not only don't stop it, I help her do it,” Kersh said with a grin. “And, no, they don't actually drown. On the contrary, they enjoy the experience. Of course, she's not using anywhere near the full power of her song. That would probably cause trouble.” He pointed up at the sign arching over them. “You see that sign? In the words of the humans, it says
Siren's Cove
.”

“Yes, I see it,” the sprite said, sounding more confused than ever. “Then they even know a siren is here?”

“Well, of course they don't know she's a
real
siren,” Kersh said. “They just think it's a clever name for the newest section of the Crusoe Island amusement park.”

Lord Albho flittered a little higher to look past Kersh's shoulder. “An
amusement
park?”

“That's right,” Kersh said. “Our little corner of the park has three pools, two surf runs, a coral reef, and twelve of the best water slides in the business. And there's something about that song of Serina's that people say adds an extra touch of excitement to the experience.”

“I see,” Lord Albho murmured. “Very clever.”

“Thank you,” Kersh said modestly. “Actually the three of us came up with the idea together.”

“The three of you?”

“Me, Serina, and Serina's husband Grizzal,” Kersh said. “He handles maintenance on our pumps and filters. Turns out gnomes are really good at hauling gremlins out of machinery.”

“So I've heard,” Lord Albho said, his voice suddenly thoughtful. “So the humans slide downward inside those curved tubes?”

“That's right,” Kersh said. “And you know, I'll bet drafting along behind them would be a really interesting experience.”

“I was just thinking the same,” the sprite said. “May I?”

“We would be honored by your presence,” Kersh said. Around the curve of the entrance walkway, a pair of adults and two young boys appeared, each carrying a swim bag. “I have to go back to work now,” he murmured. “But please come by later and tell me how it was.”

“I will,” the sprite promised, and flitted away.

Kersh drew himself up to his full height. “I am the troll of the bridge,” he called in a deep voice. “Who approaches?”

The father nudged the older of the two sons. The boy looked up, a little anxiously, but reassured by his parents' smiles he turned back to Kersh and squared his shoulders. “I am Adam,” he said, pitching his own voice as low as he could. “I seek to cross your bridge.”

“Step forward, Adam,” Kersh said. The parents, he saw, had brought plenty of cash. It would be a full, rich day for them all. “The toll for you and your companions is fifty-four dollars.”

Solemnly, the boy handed over the money. “You have paid,” Kersh intoned. “Cross in peace.”

“Thank you, troll,” the boy said solemnly. He glanced at his parents again, and then he and his brother dashed across the short arch of the decorative entryway bridge.

The parents followed, and as they passed the father winked at Kersh. “Nice makeup job,” he murmured.

“Thank you, sir,” Kersh said, bowing his head. “Have a wonderful visit.”

He smiled as he watched the family head into the park. It would indeed be a full and rich day.

For them all.

Chem Lab 301

“Hello, everyone,” Gerald Kleindst called from his desk at the front of the room. “My name is Gerald Kleindst, and I'll be your teaching assistant for the semester. Welcome to Chem Lab 301.”

It took the group of twenty students another few seconds to settle down: disentangling from final phone calls, punching up the proper course heading with their tap-tips, and ending their first-day conversations with their fellow classmates. But that was all right with Gerald. He'd been here for six years as he slogged his way toward his doctorate, had taught various chem labs for four of those years, and had found that those first few settling-down moments were often the best indicators as to how that particular class was going to go.

Because while it wasn't mentioned in the catalog, the chemistry professors and TAs knew full well that 301 was in fact the make-or-break class. This was where the students started getting their hands on the advanced equipment: the splicers, assemblers, fragmenters, and analyzers. This was where they would prove they could visualize how complex molecules went together, not just show their competence at slathering stuff from bottles into beakers and getting what the text said they should.

From all indications, this class looked to be a middle-roader. Possibly upper-middle. The students for the most part got themselves together quickly and were now facing him, ready to listen. Gerald hadn't checked their GPAs or other vitals—the administration frowned on such enquiries, especially this early in the semester when it might prejudice the instructor's attitude toward the students—but they all had the kind of attentive, eager expressions that said they were here to learn and not just fulfil some science-class requirement.

All except one. One of the young men near the center of the room was still gazing intently out the window. Gerald tapped up the class roster, keyed for the ID photos, and found the day-dreamer: Winston DeVries. “Mr. DeVries?” he called mildly.

With a start, Winston jerked his head back around. “Yes?”

“Just making sure you were with us,” Gerald said. “Once again, welcome to Chem Lab 301. As you may know, this is the class where you'll finally leave the Middle Ages of science, with the same test tubes and bottled powders you probably had in your Junior Chemistry Sets when you were nine years old. This is where you'll enter the mid-twenty-first century and real, cutting-edge science. By the time Professor Ross and I are finished with you, you'll be designing and creating chemicals from scratch for specific, targeted purposes. You'll have had experience with the Flixdane Molecule Slicer—” he pointed to one of the machines lined up along the side wall “—the Champion Resonant Spin Analyzer, and—” he lifted the pointing finger in a cautionary gesture “—if you
really
impress me, I may even let you use my personal favorite—” he leveled the finger again “—the Sakuta NanoSembler.
The
machine of choice for building new worlds from individual atoms.” He glanced around the room, noting that the students seemed suitably and properly impressed.

As well they should be. NanoSemblers were normally reserved for senior- and graduate-level labs, and it was only through the grace and cash of some anonymous alumnus that the 301 labs had been equipped with them at all. It was an opportunity most college juniors never had a shot at.

Though not everyone seemed to appreciate that. Winston was once again looking toward the side of the room—surreptitiously, but still looking. Frowning, Gerald flicked a glance that direction, wondering what on the quad was so fascinating today.

Only then did he realize that Winston wasn't looking out the window at all. He was gazing moon-eyed toward the young woman in seat Five-Two.

To be honest, Gerald couldn't blame him. The woman was a beauty, with high cheekbones, raven-black hair, big eyes, and perfect lips, the kind of woman who one would normally expect to have gone into acting, modeling, or politics instead of chemistry.

She was going to be a distraction, Gerald knew. And not just to the students.

But he was the instructor, and he would make sure he acted professionally. And while these men and women were in his classroom, they would do likewise.

Fortunately, this particular semester he was going to have an unusual and, for the students, unexpected diversion to help keep the focus on their classwork.

“And as an added bonus,” he continued, surreptitiously tapping his fingers to pull up the woman's name, “we're going to have an unofficial observer who'll be vetting both the class and your performance.” Putting his tongue to his upper teeth, he blew a short whistle.

And from the back of the room, where she'd been lying unseen under one of the tables, came Rosie.

She was an impressive sight: seventy-five pounds of the sleek coat, panting tongue, and wagging tail of a perfect chocolate Labrador retriever. Personally, Gerald had always preferred the black variety, but the chocolate was his second favorite. “This is Rosie,” he announced as she trotted up to the desk and sat down on her haunches. Sherrie Nolan, he noted, and her ID picture didn't nearly do her justice. With a twinge of guilt he tapped back out of the roster. “She's a sniffer dog on loan from the Justice and Legal Studies Department. We're going to be helping her learn how to find and identify various chemicals and drugs.”

A hand went up. “Does that mean we're going to be making illegal substances?” one of the men asked.

“Are you asking hopefully, or apprehensively?” Gerald countered.

“Neither,” the student said hastily. “Just asking.”

“Ah,” Gerald said. “Well, either way, the answer is no. Justice and Legal Studies, remember? However, we
will
be dealing with some of the fragments and chemical markers all dangerous drugs and chemicals have in common. Smugglers sometimes bring in their contraband in fragments, planning to put the pieces back together with the aid of one of the NanoSembler's baby brothers. We'll be helping Rosie learn how to spot those fragments.”

He tapped up the first page of the class curriculum. “And since she may start chewing the furniture if she gets bored,” he added, “let's head back to the tables and get ready to do some
science
.”

The class, as Gerald had tentatively concluded on that first day, turned out indeed to be one of the middle-road ones.

Most of the students were competent, though not brilliant. A couple were near-brilliant, and there were a couple of slightly-laggard ones in the mix to balance them out. All in all, it made for a very credible Gaussian curve in his gradetext.

Sherrie turned out to be not as much of a distraction as he'd feared. None of the males in the class was ever quite able to forget she was there, but she'd clearly learned a few tricks over the years for making it clear, in a nice and non-down-putting way, that she was there for the class work and the class work only. Most of the men figured it out within the first two weeks and accepted it with varying degrees of grace or regret.

All except Winston. His eyes simply wouldn't let the woman go, whether she was sitting at her desk during the instruction and recap sessions, or bent over her lab table juggling beakers and burners.

He was also one of the laggards, and Gerald had to wonder how much of that relative slowness was the unalterable limitations of talent and ability and how much was the perfectly alterable limitation of unfocused attention.

Still, whenever he judged Winston's eyes and mind had lingered too long, he could always send in Rosie.

Everyone in the class loved her. Even those who'd clearly had reservations about having her underfoot quickly became comfortable with the arrangement. It even added an extra layer to the friendly competition, as each lab pair tried to be first to create that session's chemical mix and earn themselves Rosie's first bark of approval.

It got to be so normal, in fact, that the one day Gerald accidentally gave Rosie the wrong sample to sniff, resulting in a class with no approving barks at all, an outside observer would have thought everyone's favorite uncle had just died. The relief in the room when he discovered and owned up to his error had been palpable, but he'd had to send Rosie to each table for a sniff and bark in order to fully restore the class's spirits.

She had become a part of the class. It wasn't until the day before Winter Break, though, that Gerald found out just how vital a part she was.

The lab session was over, the see-you-in-Januarys had been said, and the last students had trickled out. Gerald sat at his desk, tapping up the last comments and keeping half an eye on the clock. If he hurried, he might still be able to miss some of the mad rush as the campus turned itself inside out and scattered students and professors alike all across the Eastern Seaboard and beyond.

He'd finished the last report and was checking the grammar and format when he suddenly noticed that Rosie was across the room, sitting on her haunches and staring up at the NanoSembler. “Rosie?” he called.

There was no response. Frowning, Gerald got up and walked over to her.

Only then did he spot the softly-glowing indicator lights on the NanoSembler's control panel.

“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath. He'd demonstrated the machine for the class two weeks ago, just to show them a little of what it could do. But he'd been careful to shut it off, and no one else in the class was DNA-coded to the device.

Or were they?

He hurried back to his desk as a sudden horrible thought struck him. The only way this could happen was if two errors happened to line up just right …

They did. The TA who'd had this room and class last semester had failed to properly clear his students' access codes.

And Winston DeVries had taken, and failed, that same class.

Winston was able to access the NanoSembler, and even having failed 301 once had probably learned enough to know how to operate the machine.

The question was, what exactly had he used it to create?

Clearly, Gerald's first call needed to be to Campus Security. He grabbed his phone, keyed it on—

And hesitated. He had no proof that Winston had done anything wrong. For that matter, he had no proof that the young man had done anything more than simply turn on the machine.

Actually, he couldn't even prove
that
.

Winston had already failed a mid-level class. Calling Security down on him would add a second black mark to his record.

Gerald couldn't do that to the kid. Not unless it was really justified.

The NanoSembler had an activity log, of course. But given the machine's primary function of creating patentable chemicals, that log came from the factory heavily protected, seriously encrypted, and wrapped in a double layer of legal thorn hedges. Getting a clear readout could take weeks.

Gerald couldn't afford to wait that long. If Winston had created something dangerous or illegal he needed to be stopped before he could use it, and only Security could find him in time.

Security … or maybe Rosie.

She was still sitting by the NanoSembler. “Rosie, come,” Gerald ordered, going over to the desk where Winston had been sitting half an hour ago. It was a long shot, but Rosie should be capable of what he had in mind. “Winston DeVries,” he said, pointing to the chair. “Come on—Winston DeVries.”

For a moment those big brown eyes just gazed at him. Then, leaning forward, she gave the chair a sniff. “Got it?” Gerald asked. “Good. Let's go find him.”

A minute later they were out in the cold afternoon air.

Gerald kept his hands jammed into his pockets as he walked, wishing he'd brought his heavier coat this morning. Of course, he hadn't known when he left his apartment that he would be going anywhere except the short walk between his car and the chem building.

At least there wasn't any snow on the ground. He had no idea how Rosie would have handled that, or if human scent even stuck to ice crystals.

As it was, she seemed to have no doubts at all about where she was going.

They had left the campus proper, crossing the busy boundary street into town, when he spotted Winston. He was in one of the neighborhood's most popular soup-and-sandwich diners, sitting at a two-person table one row back from the big front window.

And he wasn't alone. Sherrie Nolan was with him.

Gerald puzzled over that as he hurried across the last fifty yards separating him from the diner. As far as he'd noticed, there had never been sparks of any kind flying between Winston and Sherrie. Certainly no sparks had come from Sherrie's direction.

But on second, closer study he realized it wasn't what he'd first thought. Sherrie's body language was completely proper, almost to the point of being prim, the posture of a woman just having a simple, Platonic drink or snack with a fellow classmate. If Winston thought his invitation was going to end differently, Gerald reflected, he was looking down the barrel of a big disappointment.

Having his chem lab TA crash the party wasn't going to make that final letdown any easier. But Gerald had no choice. He had to find out what the young man had been up to.

He was nearly to the diner, and was working out what exactly he was going to say, when Sherrie turned around in her seat to look at something over her shoulder.

And as Gerald watched, Winston reached over the table and surreptitiously sprinkled something into her soup bowl.

He nearly ran down the girl handing out menus at the reception station as he barreled his way into the diner, Rosie trotting along right behind him. He bumped past a couple of frat-type guys, nearly flattened an oblivious tap-texting girl, and reached the table just in time to flick Sherrie's spoon out of her fingers as she started to dip it into her chowder. “What in—?” she demanded, twisting around. “Oh—Mr. Kleindst. I didn't realize—”

“What was it?” Gerald snapped, glaring at Winston. “The stuff you put in her soup. What was it?”