The Lucifer Deck (20 page)

Aziz watched the other mage carefully as he spoke. "I can’t control the spirit that killed Farazad either." he said slowly.

Belanger’s lips pressed together in a frustrated line. "But I know someone who can."

Belanger drew a sharp breath. "You do? Who?" Instinctively, Carla made a chopping motion at her throat—the on-air sign for "cut."
Don’t
let
the
cat
out
of
the
bag,
Aziz,
she thought furiously.
Don’t
tell
them
about
Pita’s
magical
abilities
or
they’ll
—

Aziz waggled a blistered finger at the wage mage. "That’s going to be my secret, for now." he said smugly. "If Mitsuhama wants the answer, they’ll have to pay for it." He held up a hand to still Belanger’s protest. "Not a lot of money, mind you. I’m not greedy. Just enough to put me back in business again, say, three hundred thousand nuyen or so. I’d like a new shop, one with a private thaumaturgical lab in back. I’m sure Mitsuhama can spare the nuyen. The corporation can draft a contract to bring me temporarily on board as a private thaumaturgical consultant, and make it all nice and legal. Just be sure to tell your bosses not to send their goons after me in the meantime. I’ll be more willing to cooperate without their ‘persuasion.’ "

"How can I assure my superiors that you’ve actually got something to offer?"

Aziz tapped his burned cheek lightly. "I survived my encounter with the spirit, didn’t I? That proves that I—and my colleague—have some degree of control over it. The knowledge of how to do that ought to be worth something."

"We’ll see." Belanger tried to shrug casually, but the tension she must have been feeling was evident in the set of her shoulders. She rose to her feet. "Stay in touch. I’ll let you know what the lab’s director says."

Drek!
Is
that
going
to
be
it?
Carla zoomed out for a head-to-toe shot of Evelyn Belanger escorting Aziz back through her garden. She still didn’t have the documentary evidence she needed to complete her story. Belanger had more or less admitted that the Mitsuhama research lab was the source of the spell, but hadn’t said anything direct enough to be used in a newscast. Aziz had been too greedy, and the other mage’s replies to his questions too vague.

Carla was tempted to make her presence known, to confront Evelyn Belanger with what they knew so far, and go for a gut-level reaction shot. But then she stopped herself. Belanger wasn’t the sort who could be startled into talking. Subtlety was the key here. But subtlety had failed.

Aziz and Belanger had reached the front gate. With a sigh, Carla stopped shooting trid and sneaked out along a side path. She hadn’t gotten much, but perhaps she could use what she’d learned thus far. If she could arrange a meeting with one of the other two mages who’d worked on the project with Farazad, maybe she could entice one of them to talk. The interview would have to be set up quickly, before Aziz sold out the ork girl—if indeed that was what he had in mind. Carla didn’t think her ex was that devious, but then she hadn’t expected the curve he’d just thrown either. Was his offer to consult for Mitsuhama a spur-of-the-moment pitch, or had it been in his mind all the time?

Carla would have to ask him about that.

17

Pita picked her way through the crowd of chanting, clapping people. Hundreds of orks—perhaps even thousands—were seated in the street in front of the Metroplex Hall, refusing to move. They had come out to join the Ork Rights Committee demonstration. The thirty-story office block they sat in front of, at the corner of Fourth and Seneca, housed the city’s council chambers, as well as the offices of the governor. It was closed for the evening; the elected officials and staff had gone home an hour ago. But that didn’t stop the protesters from shouting up at its blank, tinted-glass walls.

For several weeks, the Ork Rights Committee had been trying to organize a meeting with Governor Shultz, to voice its concern over the lack of Lone Star response to the wave of recent ork-bashings by the Humanis Policlub. Earlier in the day, twelve ORC members had forced their way into the Governor’s office and staged a sit-in. They’d been dragged out by Metroplex security guards and unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk. Now ORC had mobilized their people in protest.

Pita had learned of the protest when she’d powered up an old trideo set she found in the basement of the building where she’d holed up last night. She had to keep the sound down low, and the screen had an annoying flicker. But she’d seen enough in the news stories about the protest to send a shiver of anger through her. No wonder the governor wasn’t willing to do anything, she thought grimly, recalling the recent deaths of her chummers. The Lone Star cops themselves were doing the killing.

Although the story on the sit-in had been brief, it aired on a number of the trideo stations’ six o’clock newscasts. The most strident reports had come from the
Orks
First!
pirates, who had interrupted he newscasts, urging Seattle’s ork population to "rise up out of the Underground and show Governor Schultz what you think about the way this city treats orks."

Pita felt compelled to join in the protest. To say something. She owed it to Chen, Shaz and Mohan—her dead chummers. She had to be there. She’d be safe enough—just another ork face in the crowd. If the goons were still looking for her, it was doubtful they’d be able to spot her. And, being human, they’d stand out like sore thumbs.

Orks of every description—and a smattering of trolls, as well—were firmly in place in front of Metroplex Hall. Even the slight drizzle of rain that had started to fall wasn’t budging them. They completely filled the street in front of the building; at the edges, car horns honked angrily. Traffic had come to a standstill. A pair of cops tried urgently to sort out the snarl of vehicles, waving their arms and blowing whistles in futile gestures.

A woman holding a megaphone stood at the front entrance to Metroplex Hall. Pita recognized her as a member of the Ork Rights Committee. The woman was dwarfed by the statues of the Indian chief Seattle and Charles C. Lindstrom—first governor of Seattle Metroplex—but her amplified voice rang out as she led the crowd in a series of chants: "Orks unite! Demand your rights!" Behind her, Metroplex Hall security guards eyed the crowd through the triple-thick safety glass of
the building’s main doors. The woman changed to a
different slogan: "One, two, three, four. We won’t take it any more! Five, six, seven, eight. The cops don’t come ’til it’s too late!"

Pita gingerly stepped around seated orks, trying to make her way to the front, where the woman with the megaphone stood. The closer she got, the more tightly people were packed. She finally squeezed herself in a few meters from the front, and sat down between two burly men. The woman had begun a speech—Pita caught the words "priorities." "inadequate presence." and "Lone Star procedures." She waited for a break in the tirade, occasionally waving a hand and at the same time screwing up her courage. She hoped that the committee member would let her speak. She wanted to tell everyone how the Lone Star cops had gunned down her chummers. It would be even better than going on trid—here, the audience was live. Carla and Masaki at KKRU might have strung her along with false promises to do a news story on her friends. But these people—these orks—would listen. If only Pita could catch the woman’s eye . . .

The speaker paused, startled, as something flew through the air a few meters away. A beer bottle smashed against the side of the building, painting the smoked glass wall with a trail of foamy liquid. She pointed her megaphone at the portion of the crowd from which the bottle had come. "Please!" she urged them. "This is meant to be a peaceful protest. Let’s keep it that way! We don’t want to give the police any excuse to—"

A few meters away from Pita, an ork leaped to his feet. He was in his twenties, with wild, uncombed hair, wearing a black leather trench coat studded with jagged bits of chrome. Waving his arms to get the crowd’s attention, he used the pause in the speech to start a new chant: "Bash back!"
clap,
clap
"Bash back!"
clap,
clap
"Bash back!" He alternately thrust a fist in the air in time with the chant, then led the clapping that punctuated the simple phrase. As people jumped to their feet to join him in the new chant, the woman with the megaphone tried to get the crowd back on track. But more and more people were picking up the younger ork’s angry chant, stamping their feet in time with it. At last Pita also clambered to her feet. It was either that or get stepped on.

Another bottle arced through the air. At one corner of the building, the crowd had moved forward until its front ranks were up against the building’s glass wall. They pounded on it with fists, sticks, and bottles, a wild drumbeat of anger that drowned out even the chants and claps.

Behind Pita, there was a sudden jostling as the now-standing crowd surged to one side. She turned, stood on tiptoe, and tried to look out over the crowd. At one end of the street, Lone Star officers in full armor and helmets had materialized—as if out of thin air—and drawn up in a line across the street. Those in the front rank held stun batons, and were thumping them rhythmically on their shields. They advanced slowly on the assembly of orks, stepping in time with the thud of their batons. Behind them, other cops in riot gear held the oversized guns that were used to fire gel rounds. At least, Pita hoped they held gel rounds.

The sight of the gun-toting cops turned her stomach to ice. She let out a small whimper of fear. She had to get away. Now. Things were going to get ugly, and soon.

A Star drone zoomed around one corner of the Metroplex Hall. It flew low over the crowd of orks, broadcasting the same message over and over: "This is an illegal gathering. Please disperse. Return quietly to your homes. This is an illegal gathering ..."

A wave of people swept up the steps that led to the building’s front entrance, carrying Pita with it. The wave broke against the front doors, pushing Pita face-first into the hard, unforgiving glass. The woman who had been addressing the crowd from the step had disappeared in the rash forward, but a burly troll had grabbed her megaphone. "Open the doors!" he shouted through it. Hands poured on the locked doors. "Let us in!" Inside the building, the Metroplex Hall security guards backed away from the door and looked at each other with uncertain glances.

Pita fought her way down the steps to the street. The bulk of the crowd was moving now, hurrying away from the advancing line of riot officers. But then an armored Star vehicle rambled into their path. It rolled to a stop in the intersection, oblivious of the people who were scattering away from it in every direction.

Hatches opened, and Pita heard dull thumps as canisters were fired out. The canisters exploded against the pavement with a loud crack and immediately began to release hissing clouds of white vapor. Pita caught a whiff of it and blinked rapidly as her eyes began to sting. Tear gas.

There were screams and angry shouts as the orks realized they were hemmed in, with the line of riot cops on one side and the armored vehicle on the other. More bottles arced through the air, breaking against the armored vehicle that now blocked the intersection. Other, braver orks had wrapped T-shirts around their faces and were picking up the tear gas canisters and hurling them into the ranks of the riot cops. It was a futile gesture; the cops were masked as well as armored. From behind the cops with shields came the crack of gunfire as the second rank of cops aimed and fired gel-rounds into the crowd. People screamed, clasped suddenly bruised flesh, and jostled against each other.

The sight of the Star using their weapons terrified Pita. Tears were pouring down her face—either from the whiff of gas she’d inhaled or from simple fear. She fought to reach the edge of the crowd, to escape. Bodies jostled her from every side; hands grabbed at her or pushed her this way and that. Someone yanked her jacket, choking her. Someone else tripped over the curb, crashed into her, and nearly knocked her down. What had once been an organized, peaceful protest now was a maddened mob. Everyone—including Pita—had only one thought: escape. And none of them knew
which way to run.

Pita balled her fists in frustration and sobbed. It was stupid of her to have joined the protest, to have thought that her presence would matter. She never should have come here. What good had it done? None. All the protest had done was give the cops an excuse to vent their prejudices against the "porkies." To put them back in their place. To drive them back Underground, where they belonged.

A space cleared around Pita for a moment, allowing her to catch her breath. An ork boy, perhaps six or seven years old, was hunched on the ground, clasping a bloodied knee and trying not to cry. Pita turned to help him, then froze as the front rank of riot officers charged forward at a trot, batons raised. From somewhere behind Pita, a teenager with bright purple feathers woven into his hair ran forward, gesturing at the cops. An invisible force slammed into the shields of two officers, knocking them sprawling on their butts. Then one of the cops behind them aimed her gun, fired. Purple feathers and blood exploded as the gel round caught the teenager in the eye, shattering his skull.

Pita clenched her fists. "You fragging bastards!" she screamed, heedless of the line of shields bearing down on her. "Why can’t you just leave us al—"

She barely glimpsed the stun baton that cracked against her skull. Static exploded in her brain, and suddenly the pavement rushed up toward her. She slammed into the street and felt hands flipping her over roughly. As she lay blinking, cheek to the rain-damp pavement, dazzled by the spots that swam before her eyes, her arms were yanked back. Something tight cinched around her wrists. She saw boots, the cuffs of Kevlar pants—and then the cops were past her, waving their stun batons and running up the street. She lay on the pavement, fighting to control her heaving stomach. The dead boy lay only a meter or two away, his head leaking blood.