But that rip is still there; those shedim are there and that old fart's got to be involved. Now, you gonna let that stand?
Somehow, the megalodon knew to slow at the bail-out tank, and she wondered if maybe it was simply attuned to her needs, or could there be something else…?
She'd think about that later. First things first: She purged the regulator of the bail-out tank and simply breathed. Beneath her, supporting her, the megalodon moved in small, slow circles, waiting until she was ready, until there was need for its services.
Oh Daniel… She fixed her eyes upon the light of the world above, and her resolve firmed.
No. All this would not stand.
Not if she had a say.
VI
Halfway around the world, an old man inhaled a sudden breath and came back to himself, and muttered a prayer: 'Modim anah l'fanehcha, melech chai v'kahyam… I gratefully thank You, O Living and Eternal King, for You have returned my soul within me with compassion.'
'Rebbe?' An acolyte glided to his side. 'Is Daniel…?'
'Daniel's gone,' the old man quailed. The projection left him weak and feeble as a baby. In the next few hours, he would be fed, bathed. He would sleep-but not before he gave one more order.
'Find her,' he whispered. 'Find her.' Better to Reign By Michael A. Stackpole
Michael A. Stackpole is a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning novelist, editor, game designer, computer game designer, comics writer, an podcaster, and screenwriter. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting, as well as working on ideas for a half- dozen other novels. To learn more about Mike's podcasting, please visit www.tsfpn.com (the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).
They stared at me as their bikes came to a halt, furtively assessing what level of threat I might represent. Then, starting with one Ancient who quickly infected the rest of the bikers, they snickered, cackled, and roared at some hilarious private joke.
I felt my cheeks flush with shame, though I fought for control. At first, I could not understand their scorn. Like them, I was an Elf and looked no different. Besides, I had gone to great pains to outfit myself appropriately. Silver chains dangled from my black leather jacket and razored spurs gleamed in the half-light on the toes of my boots. My fingerless gloves bristled with gleaming metal studs, and I'd even gone to the ridiculous length of affecting a purple and green mohawk hairstyle so I would fit in. Even the antique Harley I rode matched their chosen steeds of steel.
As the group continued to clutch their sides and whoop out new peals of laughter every time one of them looked at me, the truth finally dawned. Everything about me was perfect-too perfect. In this noble gathering of Elves, my clothes were just too new. My studs and spurs showed no tarnish of blood residue and my fingernails lacked the telltale oily grit from working on a bike. These details and many more revealed my true nature.
For these denizens of Seattle's Sprawl, the only thing funnier than an Elf up from the preserves of Tir Tairngire is an Elf from the wilds who attempts to disguise his origins. My precautions, my plans, had been worse than for naught, they had betrayed me.
If my face was red before, it burned now with shame.
One Elf, distinctive for the black flesh and pink scar slashed over a milky eye, approached and wiped his hands on my jacket. 'Geez, chummer, real wiz rags, 'kay?' Like a court jester, the jackanapes turned to his compatriots and bellowed, 'His Majesty has sent his Minister of Fashion to us, chummers. Show some respect.'
As the clown bent to drop his pants in derision, I twisted my wrist and raced the Harley's engine. Its bass roar exploded like gunshots off interior walls of this warehouse where the Ancients had gathered. The cycle's thunder shocked the Elf into a twisting leap backward. His pants slipped down around his knees, entangling his flailing limbs and bringing him down unceremoniously on his buttocks.
My effort at bravado earned me a momentary respite as the Ancients turned their scorn against the fallen Elf, but it was more than transparent to several other Ancients. One of them, lean even for an Elf, sliced through the crowd. Though she was not as voluptuous as I tend to prefer, her aggressive bearing and spirit were seductive enough. Yellow light flashed like a beacon in her mechanical eyes, and highlights shot from her long, coppery hair. Her gaze raked over me once, then again, more slowly. 'You jacked, chummer?'
I shook my head.
'Magicker?'
I shrugged carelessly, hoping to give the impression of possessing more abilities than I, in fact, did have.
She shrugged wearily, then smiled, flashing long canine implants. 'So yer a fern-witch come to the Sprawl to run with the Ancients, eh? Why don't the High Lord just shoot you misfits instead of sending you to us to die?'
I sensed the probe in her question, but I killed the smile it almost brought to my lips. Could it be they had been told I was on my way to Seattle, but not why I had been exiled? Did the High Lord think me so useless that he would consign my fate to hands such as these? If so, that would not be the first gross blunder he had made.
Before I could answer, the roar of another bike approaching caught everyone's attention. The syncopating rhythm of the bike's engine must have been familiar, for it thundered new life into the lethargic gang. The jester scrambled to his feet, tugging his pants into place. Grins broke over the faces of the rest, and my last inquisitor bared her teeth.
Blond hair flowing back from his shoulders, the leader of the Ancients pulled his bike alongside, slightly ahead of mine. He gave me a quick look, his corpse-white face showing no emotion, then killed his engine and parked the bike. Leaving his mirrored sunglasses in place despite the dimness, he swung off the Harley and stood there, stretching the muscles of his slender form like a cat rising from a sun-warmed nap.
'In from the Tir, eh, chummer?' He planted his fists on his narrow hips. 'By the gods, you're a sight. Got your lunch in that backpack?'
'I was told that being armed would be a good idea if I wanted to survive here in the Sprawl.'
He pulled off his glasses and hung them from his handlebars by a cord. 'I hope you're better acquainted with whatever you have in there than you are with your fancy clothes.' He looked at me again, his black eyes searching and evaluating. 'I'm Wasp, and I run the Ancients. We usually enjoy welcoming the High Lord's special pals, but that'll have to wait until later. Pearl, did you reach everyone?'
The jester nodded solemnly. 'Everyone's itching for a fight after sitting out the night of fire. Keno and Johnny Dark are pulling together the Eastsiders. They'll meet us at the border on Westlake.'
'Good.' Wasp wandered across the floor to a billiards table. Pearl swept the balls into the pockets as Wasp drew a map from inside his vest, unfolding it and laying it out on the green felt. I killed my Harley's engine and followed, taking up a position at the far end of the table. Pearl stood at Wasp's right hand, and the female leaned on the table directly opposite the Ancients' leader.
'Look, chummers, here's the score. we're going to consolidate our territory. We're going to take the streets from Dexter to Aurora, starting at Harrison and going on down to Denny.'
The whipcord samurai narrowed her Fujikon eyes. 'That's Meat Junkie turf. They ain't gonna like that.'
'That. Sting, is their problem. We're looking at an all-out battle.' Wasp looked up at his assembled soldiers. 'Kid gloves are off, chummers.'
Sting still looked uneasy, and I sensed a tension between her and Wasp that ran deeper than a just disagreement over this little outing. I could not help but wonder if these two apparent rivals had once been lovers. 'The kid gloves might be off, Wasp, but the Meat Junkies are tight with the Emerald Dogs. They can easily bring in more firepower than we can. Keno and Dark might be bringing in the Eastsiders, but will that be enough? Besides, the area you want covers Bob's Cartage and Freight, and we know the yakuza have designs on them…'
Her voice trailed off as Wasp's nostrils flared. 'The yaks ain't in on this play. The Dogs got tore up By Raven's people on the Night of Fire. Doing this is going to be good for us.'
'What about Raven?'
'What about him?' Sting's eyes snapped open and shut like the shutter on a camera. 'We offered to help him
