A sudden tearing sensation. Anger? Dismay? Fading in his mind.
Intense cold, and something hard against his back. Marc lay in the darkness, body scrunching into a foetal position, mind numb.
Blood oozed from where his hand was impaled on the piece of wood.
A thin tendril of light appeared to dissolve the blood away.
* * *
Kara Jones and Anson Greenaway, the River Severn
Breakfast was fresh eggs and bacon from a local farm. Neither Kara nor Greenaway said much, made thoughtful by what lay ahead, still a little surprised about the previous night. Both hoping it would happen again. By the river it had been animal passion, in her bed they’d discovered each other. Had felt free to say what they liked and wanted. Had called each other “love” and fallen asleep still joined.
She packed a lightweight combat bag, said goodbye to the house, locked the SUV and climbed into the jitney’s front passenger seat.
“Spoke to the Wild?” she asked when Greenaway had settled himself in.
“All set. There’s fighting on the border.”
“Which border?”
“Most of them.”
“I’m sure you’ve got it covered,” she said.
He wondered if she was being sarcastic. “Pointless knowing if you can’t do a damn thing.”
She leaned across and lightly kissed his cheek. “Don’t be so damn sensitive. We’re both Spec Ops. Chaos is us.”
“I could be a target,” he said abruptly. “So could you. I’ve no idea how strong the opposition is.”
“Pretty formidable, I’d say.” She knew he was offering her the chance to walk away. Equally, that he knew she’d never take it. But the formalities had to be observed.
Two minutes into the flight, Kara informed Greenaway that she wanted to know his history.
“You know mine,” Kara said. “I’m putting all my trust in you. We said total honesty.” Maybe he’ll talk about his dead wife, she found herself thinking, and mentally slapped her own wrist. The interest was more personal than professional. “How you got involved.”
He nodded, as if the demand was expected. “It doesn’t come easy.”
“I’m not going to judge you, Anson. Whatever it is.”
The first few words were halting, then became more fluent and with a wealth of detail. It was as if he’d rehearsed for a long time, was relieved the moment had come and determined to get it right.
4
Thirty-five years earlier, Portland Wild, former USA
Mid-morning, sun-dappled trees thrilled by May birdsong. A tall man with shoulder-length dark hair strides along an ancient trade-path, faint smile on his face and death in his heart. There are roads and a once much-loved motorbike that would reduce the journey to less than an hour, but he needs solitude and time to say goodbye to the Wild. Time to discover whether the rage and hate will lessen into a civilised need for closure and justice? He hopes not. There should be no room for police and judges. When the moment comes he will pull the trigger, sink the blade or snap the neck without flinching. He isn’t too fussed about the method, although a faint, ancestral voice whispers a blade is more honourable and his enemy should die in his arms, staring vengeance in the face.
* * *
Besides, the bike would be taken and sold to pay for the funeral, the city states had all these rules, and no way he’d contribute a coffin or cremation. He noticed the birds had stopped singing, at least those close by, and guessed why.
The alien was sat, or could be standing, no way to tell, next to an old cracked oak. It wasn’t an alien he’d seen before... over the past ten years the Gliese, Cancri and Eridani had dominated human/alien trade, but others still showed up from time to time. This one was a warty, grey-green-skinned sphere about two metres across, wearing a metallic belt with various pouches and containers. It appeared harmless – most were, any immediate damage done by accident, or so it seemed. He ignored it and strode on past, wondering how birds knew that an alien was all wrong.
“Wh-e-e-e-she-ecch!”
He slowed, turned his head and saw the alien was now floating in the air and following him. They did that sometimes: fixed on a particular individual and stayed with them until suddenly they were gone. He did not want to arrive in Seattle City with an alien in tow. People would notice. There’d be media and government involved. Wouldn’t be easy to slip away and kill a man. “Okay, fuckwit. What you got?”
The alien settled onto the ground. What could be an eye, enclosed in a transparent pyramid, emerged from a slit in the grey-green skin on the end of a long, fleshy stalk and – maybe – looked at him. The stalk bent so the pyramid’s apex pointed downwards.
The man wore standard Wilder shirt, jacket, trousers and hiking boots, deceptively simple but nothing he could trade without looking half-dressed. He had just enough cash to support a few days in the city. A small, flat vintage automatic pistol that fired perfectly. A slim knife sharpened on both sides and tapering to a needle point. It was held in an embroidered sheath that Sara had made for him, his only remaining physical link with her. Everything else had been ceremonially burned. Not the Wilder way, but very much his way and no one had tried to dissuade him. Aliens had long ago stopped accepting money, so there was nothing to trade.
He’d always been good with
